The More Things Change
by KidsNurse
Summary: Wilson's given an unexpected opportunity to prove his friendship to House. Angst, hurtcomfort, introspection. HouseWilsonCuddy. S3 character development and plotlines mentioned throughout. COMPLETED 06.22.07. Now up SNEAK PEEK at the sequel!
1. Chapter 1: MISCOMMUNICATION

**THE MORE THINGS CHANGE…**

A/N: Hi kids; great to be back--missed you guys! Starting another long one here; hope you enjoy.

**CHAPTER ONE**: MISCOMMUNICATION

"It's not working."

House glances up from some paperwork on his current case; Wilson's standing in the doorway, looking decidedly uncomfortable. "It's not working," Wilson repeats, and his voice is tense, almost nervous. He won't quite meet House's eyes.

As he stares at Wilson, comprehension slowly dawns on House's face, and his expression of confusion is replaced by one of cruel amusement. "This is some sort of retaliation for that alfuzocin scrip you wrote for me, isn't it? How _dare_ House the junkie _bother_ the dedicated Dr. Wilson with something as mundane as a plumbing problem? So now you're gonna teach me a lesson, impart some Wilson Wisdom, _and_ get your own issue resolved all at once; pretty efficient!" he comments as he locates his prescription pad and begins to scribble on it.

Now Wilson looks puzzled as he reaches hesitantly for the piece of paper House is waving at him. As he reads it, his puzzlement grows, and finally he asks, "What _is_ this?"

House removes his reading glasses and tosses them to the desktop. Then he leans back in his chair with a smug smile. "C'mon! You wanted to blame my 'pissy little problem' on the Vicodin, and you were _pissed," _House pauses to pull an amused face at his own wordplay, "when I asked for the scrip. So now you come in here asking for _that_. Losing your touch, Wilson. You _really_ think it'd put me in my place to have to write it for you? _Bzzzz_… wrong! But as always, thanks for playing!"

Wilson's thoroughly baffled. "I didn't… I wasn't… I don't call you a junkie!" _I did. I was. And no, not a junkie. An addict—much more pleasant euphemism._

"Backfired, didn't it? 'Cuz when they see I wrote that for you, it'll start some really cool rumors. Debbie from Accounting. That Peds nurse Foreman dumped, what's 'er name? Wanda?"

"Wendy," Wilson corrects automatically.

"Whatever; your potential conquests are endless. Maybe even the prescribing physician himself…." House's grin grows even more mocking as he regards an ever more baffled Wilson.

"Payback's a bitch, ain't it?" House is practically crowing. "Here you find yourself in an… embarrassing situation. Ya go to your friend expecting compassion, or maybe just a little understanding. And it doesn't happen quite like you thought it would. You and 'little Jimmy' get to be fodder for the gossip mill; people start lookin' at you funny. You wonder why your friend couldn't've just given you the scrip _without_ the side order of nastiness."

House spares Wilson a mock-sympathetic glance. "You'll get through it; I did." Wilson hears the suppressed bitterness hiding inside the sarcasm. "Hey, I'm curious," House continues, "How's it feel to be on the other side of the prescription pad? Not that I _mind_ writing it, or anything. And if little Jimmy gets 'worse', lemme know. Won't give you a problem with refills either. I know how hard it can be; doc doesn't believe you, thinks you're taking too many of 'em, gives you hell before he'll give you the scrip. Wouldn't do that to _you_, though—not to my best bud!" There's no longer sympathy in House's tone, mock or otherwise. Now his voice is just plain bitter.

House has tired of toying with Wilson, though. Quietly, he continues, "Just take it and go. I put a couple refills on there—save you havin' to go through this again. Save _me_ having to be bothered with it; win/win, right?"

Wilson stares down at the prescription, then frowns at it. The frown turns into an intense squint as he wills the letters to rearrange themselves into something—_anything_—else. Finally, he looks up, and says slowly, "Why… are _you_… giving _me_… a prescription for… Viagra?"

House settles his face into an expression of doctorly concern. "Every scrip I've ever written for 'the little blue pill' has been preceded by an embarrassing conversation that starts with some variant of 'it's not working.' Thought I'd save you that conversation. 'Course, you being a doctor and all, I'd have expected a few fancy terms thrown in for good measure, add some credibility to your story, ya know—in case I think you're making it up. Avoiding a larger issue, or something. But hey, at least _I_ didn't make _you_ repeat it three times. Loudly." House scowls now, remembering the humiliation of having to beg Wilson for pharmaceutical relief from three days' worth of urinary retention. Remembering that Wilson had accused him of lying.

Wilson doesn't know whether to laugh at the miscommunication, or just forget the whole thing, turn around, and walk out. He takes a deep breath and decides to try again. "That's why I'm here, House. _That's_ what's not working, not—" He frowns again at the paper in his hand and shakes his head as he crumples it, "_this_."

"Huh?" Now it's House's turn to look baffled. "I told you the damned pills worked. Well… those and a couple rounds with the garden hose."

"No. Not that. Not _just_ that." Wilson sighs, and sits heavily in the chair across from House. "Ever since the whole thing with Tritter…." His voice trails off, and he looks away from House.

"Is this gonna be a conversation about… _friendship_?" House asks with suspicion. "Because if it is, I think I might have an emergen—" House's pager interrupts the rest of the sentence, and he makes a show of holding it up before he shuts it off and returns it to his pocket. "Sorry. Gotta go; sick people, you know." He grabs his cane and stands.

"You did that on purpose," Wilson accuses quietly.

House smiles. "Technology—it's a wonderful thing. I'm leaving now. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves." With that, he exits the office.

Wilson stares after him for a long moment. Then he transfers his gaze to the crumpled prescription he's still holding. _Do I really make him feel like that when he asks for his scrips? _He thinks back on some of the conversations they've had about the Vicodin. _Yeah. That's exactly how I make him feel. Every damned time. Don't even show him the respect I'd give the junkie on the corner. Sure as hell don't give him the same amount of compassion. When he told me his pain had returned after the Ketamine, I told him he was just like every other patient. But I don't treat __**any**__ other patient the way I treat him._

Wilson twists his mouth into an expression of self-disgust, and lowers his head into his hand. _Add that to the list of things I owe him an apology for, and move it to the top of the pile. Been so busy trying to get House to examine his own behavior, his own motivations; never even took a second to realize that maybe mine are just as bad. Or… worse. Yeah. Worse._

Wilson thoughtfully smoothes the little piece of paper that's just taught him so much, and places it carefully in his pocket before rising slowly and walking to the door. Then he, too, leaves, shutting the door gently behind him.


	2. Chapter 2: EVASION

**CHAPTER TWO: **EVASION

Over the next several days, House grows even more adept at evading Wilson's attempts at discussion. He refuses several lunch invitations; the one time he accepts, he drags a reluctant Chase along, effectively blocking any private conversation.

Wilson tries to convince himself that House is busy, distracted. His current case is difficult, and the patient isn't doing well. House and Chase _had_ spent lunch discussing the latest test results, debating the next set of diagnostics to run. It had bothered Wilson, though, when he'd attempted to offer an opinion on the case. House had let his eyes slide over Wilson as if he weren't even there, and hadn't even paused in his discussion with Chase. Chase had caught the slight, had shrugged his shoulders apologetically at Wilson as if to say_, You know how he is when he's got a mystery—dog with a bone_.

So Wilson decides to hold off, for a while, trying to talk with House. A lot of things have changed, but not this; the puzzle still trumps everything else. And Wilson respects that, even as he ruefully acknowledges the truth; House would be dodging him anyway, patient or no.

_Because he's angry. And he's got every right to be angry. What we—no, what __**I—**__did to him, it was wrong. Yeah, I did it for all the right reasons, but that excuse is wearing a little thin now, even to me. If he won't talk, wish he'd yell, or tell me he hates me, blames me, whatever it is that's still bothering him. Wish he'd just admit that something __**is**__ bothering him. Can't start to fix it until he acknowledges it's broken…._

Wilson's thoughts wander back a few months, to a time—perhaps the _only_ time—that House had indicated, in words, that their friendship meant anything at all to him. Wilson remembers his amazement when House had told him, "Maybe I don't wanna push this 'til it breaks." There'd been something not quite readable in House's eyes when he'd said it… fear, maybe? Fear of losing the one real relationship he had, the one good thing that hadn't been a casualty of the infarction?

_Should've told him then; he couldn't—can't—break it. Damn him; I don't even know why, but there's nothing he could do that'd make me give up on him. He needed to know that then, deserves to know it now. Maybe he's acting like this because it feels safer for him, pretending not to care. He thinks he pushed me away, broke it. And he didn't. Hell, he even apologized to me. But it broke anyway…. And if he wasn't the one to do it, then maybe I was…._

This last is a new thought for Wilson, and he turns it around in his mind, and feels the first stirrings of something that might be… guilt?

Head down, deep in thought, he walks toward the elevator, and barely notices that he almost trips as he enters the car.

"Excuse _you_," a familiar voice intones, and Wilson realizes that what he'd almost tripped over is House's cane. Before he can shield the sadness in his eyes, he's looking into House's oddly concerned face.

"Lose another baldie?" House asks, and for an irrational moment, Wilson wishes that he could say yes, and keep that concerned look in House's eyes for just a few seconds more, before the strong new wall goes back up.

Wilson sighs. "No, I was just… thinking. About us, actually; you and me, this friendsh—"

"Oops; turns out this is my floor. See you!" House calls cheerfully as he exits the elevator.

Wilson sighs again as the doors close on House's rapidly retreating back.

On Wednesday afternoon, Wilson sees House's team high-fiving each other in the corridor outside their patient's room. House has solved the riddle; now all they've gotta do is cure the guy. House's fellows are happy because House is satisfied—and therefore easier to be around.

On Wednesday night, Wilson shows up at House's apartment, pizza and six-pack in hand. He knows he's taking a chance—but he's running out of ideas. House is coming to the end of his case; the timing should be good. Wilson's counting on it. He stands at the front door, wondering if he should knock and enter as he usually does—_used to do_, he corrects himself—or knock and wait. Or maybe just forget the whole thing.

He's spared the decision when House, money in hand, opens the door himself, and they stare at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds.

House finds his voice first. "Thought you were the pizza delivery."

Wilson holds up the pizza and the beer. "Better; I come bearing alcohol!" He hates the note of false, superficial cheer he hears in his own voice.

House blinks and swallows. He opens the door wider and inclines his head; Wilson feels the reluctance in the gesture, and resolutely ignores it as he walks in, striding past a bemused House. Wilson wishes he could tell him not to worry—nothing serious, no deep discussions tonight. _It's safe, House. Not gonna ambush you. Really._ But he has a plan, and he sticks to it.

All evening, Wilson intentionally steers the conversation, and he keeps it light, almost shallow. Midway through dinner, he senses that House has started to relax a bit; he's even smiled, once or twice. And every once in a while, the shutters lift a moment from the blue eyes, and Wilson catches a glimpse of something… warm, and almost open. Wilson's briefly tempted to take advantage of that, and to try, gently, to introduce the topic that's been consuming his thoughts all week.

_No; don't be an idiot_, he chides himself. _You're damned lucky he even let you in. So what if it's not exactly like old times. We're in the same room, sharing the same meal. Sharing a laugh. Yeah, I've had deeper conversations with the grocery clerk, but… gotta start somewhere._

When they end the evening, Wilson feels he's won some sort of victory when House says casually, "Still got your key, right? Lock the door on your way out, will ya?"

On Thursday afternoon, Wilson's pager goes off. He reads the message and smiles. The words are simple, generic—_house clinic exrm3—_and they're comfortable in their old familiarity.

_Maybe last night paid off_, he thinks. _Gotta admit, it was hard not to try and get 'im to open up. But this… breakdown… in communications was months in the making. Gonna take a while to repair it. Or it's going to take something… big. Really big. Something that'll prove to House that I'm in it for the long haul; that this is for life. _

He shakes his head to clear it of the unbidden image of House on Christmas Eve, lying on the floor, perhaps dying. And Wilson had walked out; he'd let House down—maybe even endangered his life. All to prove a stupid point—a point that would've most certainly been point_less_, if House had died. He's replayed it a million times since that night, and it always ends differently from the reality. _It ends the way it should've; hope he'll give me the chance, someday, to prove it. _

Wilson pulls himself out of the unpleasant memory, out of the bout of wishful thinking. He heads to the elevator, trying to remember when House had last called him down to the clinic for a sham consult. He realizes it's been months.

_Losing his touch; this is too obvious. He knows I know he's got a case; no clinic duty_. But maybe that's a _good_ sign, Wilson reflects; maybe this is House's way of trying to normalize things, his way of saying, "Okay, I'm getting over it; let's watch the soaps and laugh at Chase's new haircut."

_More wishful thinking; House doesn't let go of his grudges. He stews about 'em; he worries them—for years! _Wilson remembers a couple of years ago, House trying to take down a colleague who'd wronged him decades earlier, when House was a med student. _So what makes me think I'm gonna get off any easier? _Wilson snorts. _It'd take some life or death crisis to get me off the hook without House exacting his long, slow revenge._ Then, trying to be optimistic, Wilson reminds himself that House _had_ paged him, after all. _Longest journey… first step… all that garbage._

Wilson starts down the hall. A nurse and an intern are headed towards him, engrossed in an animated conversation.

"Figures," the intern is saying. "Does something nice for once in his miserable life, and look what it gets him."

Wilson hears the nurse giggle. "You know what they say; no good deed goes unpunished. And if he does get infected, there are a lot of people around here who'll figure he deserves it."

"No one deserves systemic MRSA, not even him," the intern says. "Could _kill_ 'im, poor bastard." The intern looks away from the nurse, spots Wilson, and stops speaking. The sudden silence causes the nurse to look up. She sees Wilson, and blushes as her hand flies to her mouth. Wilson smiles politely and nods as he passes, and their nervous, embarrassed laughter echoes in his ears as he continues down the hall.

Wilson winces at an unpleasant memory their conversation had sparked. Back in med school, a fellow student had become infected with methicillin-resistant staph aureus, known to the medical community simply as MRSA. Combative nursing-home patient, a moment of inattention during a blood draw, and _bam_. The infection had turned systemic, and the student had developed a severe bone abscess. The osteomyelitis hadn't ever responded completely to any of the antibiotics they'd thrown at it, and after an unpleasant, painful battle, the young man had been reduced to begging for death.

Wilson thinks of the conversation he's just heard, and silently wishes the anonymous victim good luck. He also makes a mental note to impress upon his next group of students and interns the importance of universal precautions. _Some poor kid's maybe had his career ruined today, before it even starts. And his career could be the least of his problems…. _Wilson thinks back to his friend in med school; the infection _had _eventually killed him, and his death had been as drawn out and agonizing as the battle against it had been.

Wilson shakes his head to clear it of the memory. _Something's_ bothering him about the conversation he's overheard, but for some reason his brain's just not letting him process it. And as sad as the incident is, Wilson's still determined to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity to get things straightened out with House.

As Wilson reaches the door of Exam Room Three, he takes a moment to school his expression into one of mild exasperation at the 'interruption' to his schedule, because that's what House'll expect—but first, he has to get rid of the amused, relieved smile he's worn since he got the page.

He reaches for the door. _Look annoyed_, he reminds himself. _But not _too_ annoyed…. _Which is why, four seconds later, he's staring at a room full of people with a completely inappropriate expression on his face. But none of those people even look up; they're crowded around the exam table, and there's blood—a lot of it. The gathered staff appear unprofessionally flustered, even upset. The only times Wilson's ever seen medical staff act like this is when the patient's one of their own, and things aren't looking good. His breath catches in his throat, and Wilson's eyes fly to the head of the bed. House is lying on the exam table looking angry—and terribly, frighteningly pale.


	3. Chapter 3: LENDING A HAND

**CHAPTER THREE: **LENDING A HAND

Cuddy's the first to notice Wilson's arrival, and she comes over to him, puts a hand on his arm. But she's blocking his view of House. He tries to pull his arm away, to step closer to the bed; she holds onto him firmly.

"Wait, Wilson. I need to talk to you before you see him."

"He _paged_ me," Wilson insists. "He'll wonder where I am, I've gotta let him know that I'm—"

"_I_ paged you," Cuddy interrupts him. "I thought you should be here, and…." Her voice trails off, and she studies the floor.

"And you were afraid that he'd refuse to let you call me," Wilson finishes for her. "I guess it's no secret that things have been… different… since I… I turned him in to Tritter." It's the first time Wilson's ever said those words aloud. Now that he's saying them, _listening_ to them, the guilt that had previously been nibbling at the edges of his thoughts hits him full force, and he looks helplessly at Cuddy.

But Cuddy can only look back at him compassionately; she doesn't know what to say, what to do to fix it, any more than Wilson does. Finally, Wilson just shakes his head and returns himself to the present. "What happened?" he asks.

"It was an accident. He was lancing a boil, and—"

"He was _what_?" Wilson interrupts. "His patient doesn't _have_ a boil, and even if he did, I can't see House—"

"She's a clinic patient. But she's—"

"Wait a second," Wilson says, confused. And suddenly, his brain decides to let him in on what was bothering it earlier. _'Miserable bastard', they said—House. No. No._ He rejects the idea. _They were talking about some inexperienced intern. Something like that would never happen to House._

There's a new note of tension in Wilson's voice as he continues, "House doesn't have clinic duty when he's got a diagnostic case. I don't understand…." Wilson's still trying to peer around Cuddy, to see House for himself.

"If you'll stop interrupting me," Cuddy says gently, "I'll fill you in completely. And he's okay for right now; promise." Cuddy feels a bit of the tension leave Wilson's body, hears him take a deep breath.

"The clinic patient's mentally disabled, lives in a group home," Cuddy continues. "She also suffers from spastic cerebral palsy, and her spasticity is pretty severe. And apparently, the furuncle's been brewing quite a while; they weren't aware of it at the home." Wilson sees—and shares—the indignation in Cuddy's eyes.

"Anyway, by the time they got her in here, she was pretty angry, bordering on hysterical—wouldn't let anyone near her. And you know House; give him a kid, or a developmentally disabled adult, and he… relates to them, somehow. Works some sort of… magic," Cuddy smiles.

Wilson smiles too, remembering the autistic child on whom he'd had to do a lymph node biopsy. Neither Wilson nor House's team had been able to get close enough to the kid even to anesthetize him. But House had.

To the other professionals watching, House's behavior with the child had appeared odd, even cruel. But the parents had thought it was wonderful—had even deemed it a breakthrough for the boy in his ability to trust. _And maybe they knew something about House that we didn't_, Wilson thinks. He remembers how, later, the kid had, unprompted, given his beloved video game to House. And he remembers House's eyes during the incident, the way he'd stared _into_ the child in a desperate, nonverbal attempt to connect—and, Wilson feels, he'd succeeded.

Wilson understands now why the clinic had asked House to deal with the frightened young woman today. More importantly, he thinks he's beginning to understand why House would agree to do it; House's connection to the children carries no judgment, no obligation to conform to social norms. The kids take House at face value, and accept him for who he is. So how—and why—had House been injured by the childlike patient, while carrying out such a routine procedure?

"At any rate," Cuddy continues, "he'd just finished lancing the boil when Leigh—that's the patient—had some spastic activity, and knocked into his hands. The scalpel sliced across his right index finger, went into his palm. He's lost a significant amount of blood, of course, and there's possible minor nerve damage to the finger." Cuddy stops speaking, seems reluctant to go on.

"That's… unfortunate," Wilson says, "But I don't think you'd call me down here to watch him get a few stitches in his hand, and a tetanus booster. Especially… under our current circumstances. There's more, isn't there?" Wilson's mouth has gone dry. _Just a coincidence, that's all. No panic necessary. After all, House isn't the __**only**__ miserable bastard in the world. There's plenty of 'em, right?_

Cuddy nods, and her voice is just above a whisper as she responds. "We'll have to wait on the cultures to be certain, but we're pretty sure that the scalpel was contaminated with MRSA. And… the cut to House's hand is deep. If it's MRSA, he was inoculated with a good-sized dose."

The fragile state of denial that Wilson had managed to maintain until this moment flees instantly. _It's House! That 'poor bastard' they were talking about in the hall is House! _Wilson's mind suddenly refuses to work logically, and he's amazed to find himself thinking, _I did this, when I wished for something big to happen, something life or death, to fix everything. It's my fault; if I hadn't—_ A quick glimpse of House's white face stops this crazy train of thought, and Wilson forces himself to be logical.

_Gotta calm down. I see this all the time; some kid wishes his jerky big brother was dead, and then the big brother has a run-in with a drunk driver, and the kid eats himself up with guilt. 'Magical thinking,' that's what the shrinks call it._ Wilson gulps air and allows Cuddy to guide him to a chair at the edge of the room.

"Oh, God," Wilson breathes, as his mind automatically starts ticking through all the possible complications. He tries to speak calmly, professionally; he knows he needs to distance himself from his own panic. "Systemic MRSA can cause osteomyelitis, bronchopneumonia, bacterial endocarditis… or it can be fatal." Wilson looks toward the exam table; the crowd of personnel has thinned while he and Cuddy have been talking, but Chase is now standing at the head of the bed. Wilson still can't see House. "Does he know?"

"He was the one who told us. Doesn't seem alarmed, but with him…."

Wilson nods; he finds comfort, somehow, in knowing that House is handling this in characteristic fashion. "Yeah; he'll never admit it. So what's the plan?"

Cuddy answers wryly, "I figured we'd let the Infectious Disease specialist tell _us_." She smiles with ironic humor.

Wilson's feeling calmer now, more rational, and he's actually able to laugh at Cuddy's expression. "Brilliant! Letting him come up with his own plan of care might… uh… increase our chances of patient compliance, too."

Cuddy searches Wilson's face. "You ready to see him?"

Wilson nods, consciously swallows the remnants of panic that are threatening to regain a foothold in his brain. "Let's do it."

Chase is the only one left at the bedside, and he backs up as they approach. At a nod from Cuddy, he begins to leave the room, but is stopped by a mild commotion just outside the door.

House had been staring at Wilson, but when he hears what's going on in the hall, he looks at Cuddy. "Let her in," he says.

Cuddy moves to the doorway and directs the attendant to bring the wheelchair in. Its occupant demands, in a thick, slow voice, to be wheeled to the bedside. It's clear that she's the patient who was the cause of House's injury, and Wilson watches curiously to see how House will handle this.

"I'm real sorry, Dr. Home," Leigh begins haltingly. "I din't mean to hurt your hand." Speech is clearly difficult for the young woman, but she continues bravely. "I wanted to come here, but… later. After the TV. My show was on the…. They said we had to… leave for the… here, but my show on the… tel… telly… you know…."

"Your television program wasn't over yet?" Wilson supplies, and Leigh nods.

"And when I get ang… an… mad, I get…." She pauses, then says with careful enunciation, "I get more spat-sic."

"Dr. House can certainly understand getting angry at having a television show interrupted," Cuddy says sweetly. Chase snickers quietly, and Wilson unsuccessfully suppresses a smile.

"Any. Way. I'm sorry." Leigh looks down, begins to twist her hands.

House gazes intently at the young woman, waiting until she looks back up at him before he speaks. "Apology accepted," he tells her matter-of-factly. "Not all your fault, anyway. I left my reading glasses on my desk; need 'em for close-up work. I'm a moron. If I'd had them, I'd have been finished with the scalpel by the time you smacked me. Damned glasses, freakin' memory. Middle age _sucks_," he informs her seriously.

Leigh giggles and puts a hand to her mouth. "You said some bad words!" she whispers conspiratorially.

House leans towards her and whispers back, "And right now I'm missing _my_ favorite show, so I'm gonna say a helluva lot more bad words if they don't let me out of this bed soon!"

The sounds of Leigh's delighted laughter follow her out of the room. When Chase sees the strange look on House's face as he regards Wilson, Chase decides to follow her out as well. Cuddy's the only one left now, besides the two of them, and she's wishing fervently that she were anywhere else—House's utterly neutral expression doesn't bode well. She'd expected yelling, or at least glaring; she'd even settle for the cruel, cutting sarcasm that had been House's favored form of communication lately. This _lack_ of inappropriate behavior seems, somehow, more ominous.

"What's he doing here?" House asks Cuddy, and his tone is one of mild curiosity.

Wilson steps closer to the bed and answers the question. "I thought you paged me; thought you wanted a consult."

"I didn't. I don't," House answers evenly. "So now that we've got that straightened out, you'd better get back to work. Cuddy's already down one department head—don't wanna keep you." House finally tears his eyes away from Wilson's face, deliberately turns his head towards the wall.

Wilson's done very well at disguising his stark worry, but it's clear that he's crestfallen at the abrupt dismissal. He closes his eyes briefly, runs a hand across the back of his neck, and nods his head. But Cuddy's still looking at House, so she sees what Wilson's missed—the briefest flash of disappointment that flares in House's eyes as Wilson turns, obediently, to leave.

"He stays," Cuddy says firmly to House, then turns to Wilson. "You stay. You're listed as his local contact, and I, currently, hold the unenviable position of his medical proxy. So, since the man's clearly out of his mind with pain," she pauses to meet House's calm, steely glare with a placid smile, "I'm utilizing my position. Furthermore, as I'm certain Dr. House can tell us, Infection Control procedure dictates that, starting immediately, this place gets a seventy-two hour vacation from him, pending a clear culture on the scalpel, and no manifestation of symptoms."

Cuddy smiles wickedly in House's direction. "And I'm pretty sure there's some sort of stupid New Jersey traffic law prohibiting one-handed, one-legged, _brainless_ motorcyclists from being on the road with the rest of us. So, at minimum, Wilson's gonna have to give you a ride home." Cuddy studies House; she knows him well enough to see the relief in his eyes. "I'll go get your discharge papers started. And as long as you two are stuck with each other—and you _are_—I'd suggest you take Wilson up on that consult. Because you're staying right there until someone gives me a care plan for your injury." She smiles widely at both men, then turns smartly and exits the room, leaving them alone.


	4. Chapter 4: WHAT NOW?

**CHAPTER FOUR: **WHAT NOW?

To forestall the need for conversation, Wilson begins to search the room for a clipboard and paper. He knows he needs the time to put everything into perspective. He reminds himself of the odds; this'll probably turn out to be nothing more than an inconvenient injury, an unexpected three day vacation. How many times has he advised a patient to think positively while awaiting the results of a biopsy? How many families has he seen get themselves worked up over something that turns out to be nothing? "Save your energy," he always tells them. "If the biopsy results don't go our way, you'll need it then. And you'll be able to put it to much better use when we have the facts."

_Sound advice_, he thinks now. _So right now, just play this like everything's gonna be fine; save your energy, and hope you won't need it._

He locates the clipboard and removes a pen from his pocket. Then he begins to pace the length of the short room. Pace to the right wall. Turn. Pace to the left wall. Repeat.

House watches this activity for several minutes, turning his head slowly, in sync with Wilson's movements. Finally, he yells, "Will you _please_ sit down!"

Wilson, who'd been deep in thought, startles as if smacked, but he stops walking and looks at House. "Why is it all right for _you_ to drive everyone to distraction when you're working on a case, but _I_ need to confine _my_ deep thinking to a chair?" he asks, annoyed. "I'm just trying to come up with some sort of treatment plan so we can get you outta here."

"Oh, that." House waves his right hand dismissively, winces when the motion starts an uncomfortable throbbing in his palm. "I figured all that out half an hour ago. Already counted all the ceiling tiles. Twice. Didn't have anything better to do."

Wilson's still peeved at having been yelled at. "Okay, great. And—since you feel no need to _share_ this information…." He deliberately approaches the bedside from the right, and holds out the clipboard, forcing House to reach across with his uninjured left hand to take the board.

"And I'm supposed to write this out… how?" House asks.

"Oh, sorry. Thought you'd figured _that _out too. After you got bored counting the floor tiles or something."

"I guess I _could_ hold the pen with my teeth," House muses. "But then that would make your presence here completely unnecessary."

"Why don't _I_," Wilson says with relish, "go locate your reading glasses while _you_ learn how to become a lefty?"

"_That_ was cold," House acknowledges with appreciation.

Wilson bites back a smile, and thinks, _This might not be as hard as I thought; falling right back into the old patterns._

House raises an eyebrow. "Why don't _you_ play secretary while _I_ play doctor?" he retorts, handing back the clipboard. Wilson notes that as soon as House's left hand is free, he uses it to cautiously cradle the right one.

"You in pain?" Wilson asks. Despite his best efforts, concern creeps into the question.

"Start writing," House commands.

Wilson settles into the chair and watches House's face closely. _I know he's gotta be terrified; of course he's even more aware of the complications of systemic MRSA than the rest of us are. But House is… House. Wouldn't do for me to let him see how worried I am. Gotta watch that; he's looking for any excuse to turn down my help._

"First things first. Won't have the initial culture results for twenty-four hours. So we're not gonna start anything drastic until we know for sure. Oral doses of rifampin, maybe some ciprofloxacin, ought to do it for now."

Wilson hesitates, unsure how to word what he needs to say. "That's… it's… there's a… possibility that the strain'll be resistant to both of those."

"And an equal possibility that they'll be effective," House points out.

"But… any delay in proper treatment increases mortality significantly."

House rolls his eyes in a 'like I don't _know_ that already' gesture. "Don't overreact; it's tiresome. If I wanna deal with that, I'll get Cameron to drive me home. Besides, it'll be interesting to see what the superbugs in this part of New Jersey are susceptible to."

Wilson's had enough. "This isn't some high school science experiment, House; it's your _life_!" he says, his voice rising. Despite his earlier soothing speech to himself, images of his dying classmate are flooding his brain; his eyes begin to widen as panic takes over again.

House stares at him. "You need to calm down," he tells Wilson, and his voice is low, deadly serious.

Wilson stares back; he doesn't know what to say. House is right, and Wilson acknowledges that with a curt nod and a deep, steadying breath. "What's your reasoning for avoiding vancomycin at this point?" he asks calmly; two colleagues, objectively discussing treatment, that's all.

House points to some papers lying on the counter. "Take a look at those. Liver enzymes are slightly elevated. Renal function's not the best. We haven't confirmed MRSA yet, so in the risk/benefit analysis, the liver and kidneys say that we go conservative."

_I'm an idiot, _Wilson thinks. _Of course; the long-term results of his Vicodin use are gonna have to figure into any choice of treatment. _"I'll call the pharmacy, get three days' worth of both," he says quietly.

House nods his approval. "Now, here's the deal if the cultures confirm MRSA," House tells him, and begins to rattle off a detailed treatment plan, speaking so quickly that Wilson's having a difficult time scribbling it all down.

When House pauses a moment to calculate a dosage, Wilson's thoughts wander to Leigh. He's surprised to discover that what he's feeling towards her is resentment. _She_ put them here, literally fighting to save House's life. Leigh's infection had been confined to the lesion, and now she's gone home with nothing more than a gauze bandage and a handful of antibiotics.

_It's not fair. House was trying to help her; he didn't even need to be there, and now—_. Wilson, with an effort, stops the irrational thought process. _It wasn't her fault; she didn't do anything purposely. House knows that. So why is it bothering me so much?_

And then, all at once, he knows why. _I'm not angry with her; I'm furious with myself—she's just an easy target. If things between House and me hadn't changed, I'd have probably been there with him. He always used to call me for these simple things; kept 'im from getting bored, gave us a chance to talk. If I'd been there, I could've restrained her, prevented it from happening. I could've protected him; I let him dow—_

Wilson pulls in a sharp breath, and his head snaps up. Unaware that House has resumed speaking, he angrily rejects his last thought. _Trying to protect him; that's how I pushed it in the first place. _Dimly, he becomes aware that House is calling his name, and has apparently done so several times. He refocuses his attention. "I'm sorry; I was double-checking that last calculation; didn't hear what you just said. Mind repeating it?" He poises his pen over the paper while House regards him dubiously.

Finally, House begins to speak again, and they're just finishing up when Cuddy returns.

"You gentlemen get everything settled?" Neither of the men misses the question's double meaning.

"We've got a plan of care; House has figured out every contingency," Wilson answers as he hands her the clipboard. "I'll need to pick up the initial meds from the pharmacy before we leave. We can worry about the rest of it after the cultures come in."

"Fine," Cuddy responds. "And I've arranged for Altman to cover your patients for three days at least."

"_Un_arrange it," House says, before Wilson can thank her. "Doesn't take three days to drive to my place from here. He'll be back before Altman figures out how to pull his head out of his ass."

Cuddy and Wilson both stare at him. "I just assumed…." Cuddy begins slowly.

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about that," House smirks.

"But House," Wilson cuts in, "You're gonna need help." Wilson plays his trump card. "If you don't want me staying with you, that's fine. But that hand has to stay wrapped, dry. You'll need a live-in home health aide, just for activities of daily living. And a visiting nurse at least once a day for wound care and dressing changes, more often if you wind up on IV antibiotics." Wilson tries hard not to look smug as he allows House to contemplate this massive invasion to his privacy.

"Works for me!" House announces cheerfully.

Cuddy looks helplessly at Wilson. Wilson, stunned, simply nods. "I'll go set it up," he says softly, and leaves the room.


	5. Chapter 5: THE BEST LAID PLANS

**CHAPTER FIVE: **THE BEST-LAID PLANS

After Wilson leaves the room, Cuddy stares at House for so long that finally he demands, irritably, "What!"

Cuddy shakes her head at him; House is reminded of the times he'd disappointed his mother with his behavior in public. He finds, to his dismay, that he's actually having to stop himself from squirming uncomfortably under Cuddy's steely gaze.

"What'd I _do_?" he asks again, and he recognizes the same plaintive note in his voice with which prepubescent Greg had asked the question; his mom had called it a whine.

"Like you don't know. You just cut off your nose to spite your face." Yeah; his mom used to say that, too.

"Why? Just 'cuz I don't want Wilson hangin' around my place wringing his hands and melting his eyes every time I say 'owie'?"

"Yeah, I can see where having to deal with real caring and compassion would be a hardship," Cuddy says dryly. "So instead, you're willing to pay strangers to pretend to care; you're willing to let your best friend sit in his hotel room and worry himself sick over you. All because of your stupid pride. People can choke on their pride, you know."

_There she goes, channeling my mother again. That's just… weird. _"Well, if I choke on my pride, good thing there's a doctor here; I'll bet you're trained in the Heimlich maneuver and everything. Whereas Wilson, judging by recent history, would just let me strangle in it." House's eyes go distant.

Cuddy knows he's remembering that disastrous Christmas Eve, when he'd overdosed on a stolen prescription. Wilson had left him lying in his own vomit. And things between the two men had changed rapidly after that. Whatever it was that had bonded them so deeply seems to have broken. What surprises Cuddy is that Wilson's feeling the loss as keenly as House is. Wilson's come to her several times to talk about it; he's utterly lost without House, his unlikely best friend.

Cuddy had figured that Wilson would quickly fill his life with dates and sports and all the people who'd previously avoided him because of his association with House. She'd figured that House would simply become meaner, more miserable, even more of a loner. Of course, she'd been right about House. But about Wilson, she'd been completely wrong. And now she worries constantly about both men.

"That night," she begins carefully, "Christmas Eve. It killed him to leave you there, you know."

"Could've killed me too," House observes.

"He was doing what he thought he had to do, to help you. He was seeing you kill yourself by pieces; watching that was destroying him. By Christmas Eve, he wasn't thinking straight anymore."

"He was willing to let me die, to prove some stupid point."

"And _you_ were willing to kill yourself to prove the opposite point. In chess, I believe that's called a stalemate. But the game didn't end in a draw; you _both_ lost." Cuddy steps closer to House, places a tentative hand on his arm. "I've spoken with him about this, House. I know how badly he feels. Can't you forgive him? He knows now that what he did that night was wrong—"

"What he did was _right_!" House interrupts so fiercely that Cuddy releases his arm, takes a step back. She stares at him, stunned.

House continues, "What he did was right for me. Made me take a look at a few things. Made me pull my act together. Made me go to Tritter—for all the good _that_ wound up doing." House laughs bitterly.

"I don't understand. If you believe that he did the right thing, then what's changed between the two of you?"

House meets Cuddy's eyes, and holds them locked with his own, in almost the same way he'd tried to connect with the autistic boy. Cuddy's aware that he's searching inside her for something… vital. Apparently he finds it, because he nods to himself and begins to speak. His tone is low and serious.

"I said he did the right thing for _me._ It was _wrong_ for him. It wasn't who he _is_, what he _does_. He thinks he's supposed to protect me. He went against his own nature, sacrificed everything he believes about friendship in some moronic attempt to help me. He thinks he failed, let me down. And he can't live with that."

Cuddy stands very still, almost afraid to breathe. _I've known House a lot of years; he's never talked to me this way, never opened up like this. Whatever he's got to say, it's important. And it's the truth—his truth, anyway_. She nods slowly, indicating for him to go on; he's got her full attention.

"Then this happens," House indicates the bandaged right hand. "And he wants to rewind that night, atone for his behavior. He wants to make it come out right this time—but right for him, not for me."

House fixes Cuddy with a serious gaze. "If I keep him out, then he'll get past what he did that night, no matter what happens this time around. Gonna take a while, but he's stronger than he thinks he is; he'll get through it. But say I let him back in _now_, let 'im go all warm and concerned, indulge all that guilt. I let him do that whole _thing_ he does, take care of me, get his 'need' fix. And then this turns out…." House pauses, takes a breath. "If I die, he'll never get past it. It'll eat at him, destroy him. I'll take him down with me." House smiles without humor. "And that goes against _my_ nature. I'd prefer my death to be a solo act; no one gets hurt but me. Just call me a selfish bastard…."

_I'd call you anything but. _"I understand," Cuddy says softly. And she does, just as she understands that this conversation, this admission, has cost House dearly.

Both of them are silent for several minutes, each lost in private thoughts. Then Cuddy ventures tentatively, "I want you to think about something. This'll probably turn out to be nothing. You'll be back to work in a few days, and nothing will have changed. Nothing. And you'll have blown your chance to get past it, get things back to whatever it is the two of you call 'normal.' You'll have blown _his_ chance." House opens his mouth to speak, and Cuddy holds up a hand. "Just think about it."

Any response House might have given is cut off with Wilson's return. "Bad news," he tells them. "The agency's overbooked, can't start shifts until tomorrow." He looks at House. "So I guess you'll have to wing it tonight. Good news is I've got your meds, and a wheelchair waiting. So we can leave whenever you're ready."

"Now _that's_ what I've been waiting to hear," House proclaims happily. "Home, James!"

Cuddy goes with them to Wilson's car. She and Wilson step away a short distance and go over a few details again. They aren't really discussing anything important, but they want to give House some privacy while he adjusts to standing and walking with the cane in his left hand, and gets himself settled in the passenger seat. He blows the horn impatiently, and they both jump. Cuddy pats Wilson's arm, and watches while Wilson puts House's backpack in the trunk, then gets into the car. Cuddy shakes her head sadly as they drive off.

On the ride home, House keeps his eyes trained out the side window. Wilson glances over when House gives a soft hiss of pain; he's cradling the right hand again. "Might wanna lift it up a little; help with the throbbing," Wilson says casually.

House gives a soft, derisive snort at the unsolicited advice, but Wilson notes that a few seconds later, House has lifted his right elbow to the armrest, and his bandaged hand is lying against the window. House has closed his eyes, leaned his head back; he looks a little more relaxed.

As Wilson pulls up to the apartment, House is already opening the car door. "Been real. Thanks for the ride," he says.

"Oh, no," Wilson responds as he retrieves the backpack from the trunk. "Orders from the top; I'm not to leave until you're safely settled."

Wordlessly, they enter the apartment together. "Almost dinner time," Wilson says. "Want me to fix you something?"

House ignores the question. He sits down on the couch, props his legs on the coffee table, and grabs the television remote. "This is as settled as I get. Bye," he says, eyes already on the TV screen. _Argue with me._ _Insist on making dinner. Make up some flimsy excuse; I'll buy it. Just don't lea--_

Wilson clears his throat and looks hard at House. "You're the boss," he says, his voice devoid of emotion. He drops the backpack, turns around and walks out. House shuts his eyes tight against the sound of the door thudding closed.


	6. Chapter 6: GOOD NIGHT

**CHAPTER SIX: **GOOD NIGHT

Wilson opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Again. _Not even any tiles to count in this damned hotel. _He turns over, struggling against the tangle of the sheets—testament to his restless night. His eyes focus on the clock. _12:52; not possible, been lying here at least half the night. _He closes his eyes and tries not to think.

Five minutes later, when his cell phone rings, his eyes fly open as his weary brain tries to place the jarring sound. He grabs for the phone, sees the lighted caller ID display. House. Wilson pushes the talk button. "Yeah, House, what is it?" He hopes his voice sounds sleep-heavy and annoyed; that's the tone he's trying for, anyway.

"Did I wake you? Figured you'd be up worrying yourself silly over my boo-boo; I'm disappointed," House drawls.

"Sorry to hear that," Wilson says. "Personally, I'm thrilled to be awakened at one o'clock in the morning so we can have a conversation about my sleep habits." _Or lack thereof._

"Actually, I had a reason for calling. See, I'm watching this movie—and who'd have thought singing bears could be boring, by the way—and it's at a commercial, so thought I'd let you know the dressing's soaked through on my hand, just in case you wanted to stop by in the morning and change it or something, but if you want me to wait for the nurse—"

"House, shut up! Don't you ever take a breath? Soaked through? With what?"

"Well, it's red. And sticky. I'm guessing it's blood."

"It _shouldn't_ be actively bleeding at this point."

"I'll let it know; I'm sure that once it hears your professional opinion, it'll stop immediately. G'night."

"House, _wait_! Don't hang up. Listen, elevate your hand, wrap it in a towel or something. I'll be right there, okay?" Wilson is already standing, turning on lights, searching frantically for clothing.

"If you're sure it's not a bother. Wouldn't wanna disturb your sleep or anything."

"Yeah; got it. You're all about my welfare; I'll make a note. On my way."

Wilson dresses hurriedly, and makes a quick stop at the hospital to pick up a suture kit and wound-care supplies—no telling what House has done this time. Wilson's too experienced to ask—at least not over the phone.

When he arrives at the apartment, he decides to forego any formalities; he uses his key and lets himself in. House is lying on the couch in the living room. He's got his right hand propped up on a couple of pillows, and Wilson can see, even in the dim light, that the blood's already coming through the towel. Wilson reaches instinctively for the injured hand.

"_Gloves_!" House barks harshly, pulling his hand out of Wilson's reach; the quick movement elicits a sharp wince. "MRSA, you idiot," House says more quietly as he gingerly repositions his hand on the pillows.

"Thanks; wasn't thinking." Wilson gloves up and unwraps the soiled dressings, placing them in the biohazard bag. The bleeding's slowed, so Wilson takes his time examining the suture line. "You tore a couple of stitches," he tells House.

House lets his mouth drop open, pretends to be shocked at the news. "Nah! Ya think?"

Wilson ignores the sarcasm. He's just noticed that there aren't any dirty plates on the coffee table—just a half empty bottle of ginger ale. "What'd you do about dinner?" he asks idly.

"See, that's the thing about Vicodin—perfect appetite suppressant. Drug reps should really mention that; they're missing out on a _huge_ segment of the market!" House grins.

"Want something to eat now?" _Damn it, House; if you're infected, your body's gonna be burning calories like wildfire! Not like you can afford to lose any weight, either._

"Roller coaster in my stomach says no; thanks just the same."

Wilson sighs. "Wanna tell me what happened?" he asks as he readies the suture kit.

"Damned thing was throbbing. Figured some ibuprofen wouldn't hurt; you know, that whole synergistic effect thingy they told us about in med school? So I get the bottle, only then there's the entire childproof cap issue to deal with. Have you ever met anyone who could 'push' and 'turn' and 'squeeze' all at the same time? I haven't… well, maybe a couple of three year olds, but then that defeats the whole purpose of _childproof_, don't you think?"

Wilson steals a sidelong glance at the bottle of Vicodin on the side table. _Definitely more than a few pills lighter than it was when I left. Explains the good mood. And the babbling. _"House. Focus. The hand," Wilson says patiently.

"Oh yeah. Anyway, so there I was, going through all these digital gymnastics with my non-dominant hand, and my right hand just automatically says _lemme show ya how it's done_, and the next thing I know, the bottle's open! And my hand is bleeding. Case of taking the good with the bad, I guess. Or is it the bad with the good? I'm always getting that proverb confused. Or is it a moral? 'Cuz I'm not real clear on that, either."

"The only thing _I'm_ clear on right now is that I'm sorry I asked. _Really_ sorry. Let's just get this done."

Wilson cleans the wound. As careful as he is, he can tell that it's still quite painful for House; he's supporting House's hand with his own, and he can feel the muscles, the tendons tightening with each touch. House refuses the numbing agent; Wilson nods agreeably at him and injects the lidocaine anyway. He successfully ignores House's dirty look, and commences the suturing. This is the first opportunity he's had to see how severe the injury really is, and he finds himself thinking that even if there's no contamination, House is in for a rough ride. He knots and clips the final stitch and begins to rebandage the hand. As he reaches the index finger, House gasps and involuntarily yanks his hand back. Wilson looks up in surprise, then remembers that Cuddy had mentioned possible nerve damage.

"Damn, that hurt!" House says through clenched teeth. "Guess that answers any lingering doubts about nicking a nerve." He tries to smirk, to make light of it, but finds himself dropping the smile as he looks into Wilson's sympathetic eyes. "It's okay now; I'm fine," he says shortly, and looks away.

Wilson gently finishes the bandaging and stands wearily, pushing his hands into his aching lower back. "Unless you need anything else, guess I'll clean this up and be going."

House watches Wilson straighten the supplies. "You can stay," he says abruptly. "Happen to have an unoccupied couch. Or… it _will_ be, once I get done occupying it. Only people out this time of night are drunks and docs. The latter usually 'cuz of the former. We patch up their victims and then we patch _them_ up so they can go out and send us more victims—it's this big circle. You ever think about that? Now _there's_ a true synergistic relationship. Or is it symbiotic? I think it's symbiotic. Anyway. We keep them in business so they can keep us in bus—"

"House. I get it. I'll stay." Wilson can't help himself; despite the grim nature of House's ramblings, he's laughing. _God, I've missed this. House is still… House._

"And meant to tell ya, you did a lousy job with the stitches; scar for sure."

"I failed sewing class in Home Ec; so sue me. Or call a surgeon next time; I hear they _live_ for house calls. Pardon the pun."

"Wasn't complaining; chicks _dig_ scars; adds mystique."

"And you're such an open book that you need all the mystique you can get, right?"

"That's me," House agrees happily. "You get what ya see!"

Wilson mentally rolls his eyes; he's too tired to be baited into _that_ particular infinite loop. He allows the ludicrous statement to go unchallenged; his only goal now is to see to it that House is comfortable—and safe. _Like he's ever really safe; he's his own biggest hazard!_

He helps House to bed, makes sure his hand is elevated and that the Vicodin's within easy reach. As Wilson's getting himself settled on the couch, House calls out from the bedroom.

"Hey, Jimmy, I never finished telling you about the ibuprofen! So I get the cap off, and turns out it's a new bottle. And you know that hermetically sealed foil thing?"

"Shut up, House. Go to sleep," Wilson shouts. He's smiling as he buries his head into the ratty, familiar old pillow and falls immediately to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7: GAME PLANS

**CHAPTER SEVEN: **GAME PLANS

In the morning, Wilson awakens before House does; a quick glance into the bedroom ascertains that House is sleeping comfortably and the bandaged hand remains elevated.

Wilson starts the coffee, then rummages around for something that might pass as breakfast. He comes up with half a loaf of stale bread and two eggs. _French toast it is. _He digs out the electric griddle from beneath a couple of dirty pots on the drainboard, washes it, and sets to work.

When House enters the kitchen, sniffing the cinnamon-scented air appreciatively, Wilson observes, "Your timing's uncanny. Amazing how you can sleep soundly through the cooking part, yet make your entrance coincide so neatly with the eating part." He puts a plate and a cup of coffee in front of House.

"Not like I'd have been much help," House says, indicating the injured hand. "Mmm… this is good. Home health aide gonna be able to cook?"

"That's what she _does_, House. Hence the phrase 'assistance with activities of daily living.' She'll get your meals, clean the apartment, even do the wash. And she'll get an occasional set of vitals and make sure you don't injure yourself further by doing anything stupid."

House is insulted. "Stupid? Me? What could I possibly do?"

"For starters, you could, oh… say… try to open a childproof cap? I know you, and trust me—the possibilities for danger boggle the mind."

"Hmmph." House suddenly develops great interest in the remainder of his breakfast.

Wilson finishes his coffee. "Gotta get to work. Need anything before I leave?"

"What's your rush? Who's gonna refill my coffee, get the plates to the sink?"

_Are you actually asking me to stay? _"I guess I could use a second cup myself." Wilson refills both cups and sits down at the table. "You know," he says slowly, "I _could_ still put in a call to Altman, and cancel the agency. If you want."

"Could be fun," House says thoughtfully. "_If_ you don't hover or anything."

Wilson knows he has to play this carefully. "For crying out loud, House, you hurt your hand; not like it's your first day home after a heart transplant!"

House pretends to consider it. "Okay then. Yeah."

Wilson hesitates. "And maybe… this'll give us some time to get a couple of things straightened out. Been wanting to tell you—"

House cuts him off. "You know what, think we'd better leave things alone; be rude to cancel the agency on such short notice." He reaches for his cane, stands, and exits the kitchen.

"Since when did you ever care about rude?" Wilson asks the empty kitchen as he straightens up. _What's with him? Months ago, he claims nothing's changed—but everything's changed. Then last night feels like old times, and now he clams up again. One step forward, then two back. At this rate, we'll never get anything resolved; not even sure he wants to anymore. _Wilson finishes cleaning the kitchen, then grabs his keys and heads through the living room to the door.

House flicks his eyes towards Wilson, then back to the TV. "Catch ya later," he says.

"Yeah." Wilson doesn't even pause on his way out.

House leans his head against the back of the couch and sighs. _What do you want from me? We gonna rehash the scrip pad again? Rehab? Or maybe just have another go at how I'm depleting New Jersey's Vicodin supply? Can't we give it a rest? I know I pushed it! I know it broke! I'm sorry, okay? Just in case you're interested, this… this… __**thing**__… hasn't been working so hot for me either!_

House, frustrated, lifts his head and begins to slam his right hand into the couch pillows. He stops the motion in midair, stares thoughtfully at the hand—and he hears Cuddy's voice. _You'll have blown your chance… blown his chance… nothing will have changed…._

"Shut up, Cuddy," he says aloud—but there's a contemplative gleam in his eye, and a slow grin sneaking its way across his face.

---

Wilson hangs up the phone and looks at his watch. _3:20; agency didn't even last four hours. Now what are we gonna do?_ He stands and squares his shoulders; he needs to go tell Cuddy, and he's not looking forward to it.

Before he can leave his office, the phone rings again; it's the lab. He listens intently and thanks the caller. "Damn!" he says as he hangs up the phone. _This changes everything; hope Cuddy has some ideas._

Cuddy has plenty of ideas.

---

Wilson can hear House shouting even before he opens the apartment door, and he hasn't taken more than a couple of steps inside when he's accosted by the aide.

"I've taken care of better-behaved four-year-olds!" she tells him. "More polite, too!" She puts her hands on her hips and glares at Wilson as if he, himself, is responsible for House's behavior.

"I'm terribly sorry, Sara. He's… in a lot of pain, and sometimes it affects his mood. I'm sure he didn't mean to--"

"Oh, he meant everything he said and did, Dr. Wilson! I tried, I really did—but for your sake, not for his. You're one of the nicest doctors at the hospital; I've had a lot of clients tell me you're an angel. I tell 'em they're right; you are. I'll never forget how good you were to my mom. So I tried, but I'm sorry—it's just not gonna work out. And how an angel like you can be friends with a devil like him, I'll never know."

"Sometimes I don't know either," Wilson says, tight-lipped. He apologizes again, and is seeing her to the door when he realizes that House is still yelling. "Is there someone in the bedroom with him, or is he just finishing out his temper tantrum?" he asks. He's afraid he knows the answer.

"It's the nurse. The poor nurse," Sara tells him. She shakes her head at him and leaves.

Wilson's shouting a last apology after her when he hears what can only be a slamming door. He puts his head in his hands. Seconds later, he's accosted by another angry female voice. "What am I doing here?" the voice demands.

Wilson dredges up his most charming smile and turns around. "Uh… taking care of the patient?" he ventures.

"_That_ is not a patient!" she spits. "_That_ is a nightmare."

Wilson closes his eyes against a looming headache. Remembering to keep the smile firmly fixed, he says soothingly, "It can't be _that_ bad, Lissa. You're one of the best nurses the agency has; you were able to handle Mr. Thornton when no one else could! And compared to him--"

Lissa isn't buying. "Compared to _him," _she interrupts, gesturing angrily in the direction of House's room, "Mr. Thornton was a lamb."

Wilson drops the smile. "Yes. Well. Be that as it may, Dr. House is still your patient, and you have a responsibility to him."

Her eyes narrow. "I was attempting to carry out my _responsibility_ to him when he went ballistic. First, he refused to allow me to do wound care; said you did it early this morning. Told me if I was any kind of a nurse, I'd know it had to be done only once every twenty-four hours. Accused me of trying to cause him extra pain!"

"Well, that was just a little misunderstanding. I _did_ do the wound care; I should've notified the agency. My fault; forgive me?" This time Wilson goes for the smile he's overheard some of the nurses refer to as 'boyishly irresistible.'

Lissa's able to resist it just fine. "Oh, that isn't all. They paged me on the way over here, told me to start a heparin lock, get the vancomycin going. So I tried to do _that_. When I told him the initial cultures were positive for MRSA and we needed to put in the heplock, he said I had all the sensitivity of a rampaging rhinoceros, and that no one was doing _anything_ until he heard it from _you_. So now _you_ can tell him, and _you_ can start the heplock, and he's all _yours_. And you're welcome to him. Rampaging rhinoceros, indeed!" She storms out while Wilson is still trying to formulate a way to soothe her ruffled feathers.

Wilson takes a couple of minutes to put away the medical supplies he's brought, and to try to work up a little sympathy for House before he enters the bedroom.

Surprisingly, it's not all that hard to find sympathy for House. _Probably wasn't the best way for a specialist in infectious disease to learn that he's looking at systemic MRSA. And he's scared, and not about to admit it. Not to me—certainly not to some battle-axe nurse._

By the time Wilson arrives at the bedroom, he's ready to put the game plan he and Cuddy came up with into action. He sends a quick prayer skyward, knocks twice, sharply, on the door, and enters the lion's den.


	8. Chapter 8: CHILD'S PLAY

**CHAPTER EIGHT: **CHILD'S PLAY

As Wilson enters, the 'lion' is looking more like a lion _cub_ who's just been soundly cuffed by mama. House is lying on the bed, has his arms crossed against his chest, his mouth tightly pursed, and he's glowering.

"Nice expression, House," Wilson observes dryly. "You look like an angry three-year-old. Matches well with recent reports of your behavior."

House turns the scowl on Wilson. "Don't screw with me. I've already gotten rid of a nursing assistant and a nurse. Wouldn't mind adding a doctor to that list."

Wilson marches over to the bed and produces an EMLA patch and a blue lollipop from his pocket. He hands the lollipop to a clearly baffled House, removes the backing from the skin-numbing patch, and places it over a large vein in the crook of House's right elbow. Then he crosses his own arms and looks down sternly at House. It's a little difficult to maintain the stern expression though; the exaggerated confusion on House's face as he looks from the patch to the candy makes him want to laugh.

"Ohh-kaay…." House finally says. "Wanna tell me what the hell is going on?"

"_All_ my pediatric patients get the patch and the pop," Wilson hisses.

House gets it now—but instead of looking properly chastised, he grins, then tears at the cellophane on the lollipop with his teeth. "Cool," he says mildly.

Wilson's eyes widen. "You think this is funny? _Cute_, maybe? You blew it, buddy. Cuddy's reaction to hearing about your little performance was to hospitalize you—until the floor nurses heard about it and two of them threatened to quit on the spot. Then she figured she'd pacify the agency by firing you. I—idiot that I am—made the mistake of pointing out that she can't do that while you're out with a work-related injury. And you know what she said?"

Now House's eyes are wide, and he actually looks a little worried. He's clearly mistaken the strain in Wilson's voice for anger, when actually it's a result of Wilson's attempt to suppress his laughter at House's antics. _Works for me_, Wilson thinks. _Let him think I'm mad; game plan's working out great so far._

"She said," Wilson says, and pauses for effect, "that since she can't punish _you_, she'll punish _me_ instead. So you're stuck with me. And—just in case _that_ wasn't clear enough—allow me to introduce myself. My name is James Wilson, and I usually just put an 'MD' after it, but our boss has recently added an 'HHA'. _And_ an 'RN'. Meet your new home health care staff. _All_ of it." He executes a stiff, formal bow and glares at House.

House stares back at him. _Okay, Cuddy, _House thinks. _I'm playing it your way; so far it's working. Let's see how long it lasts. _"Pleased to meet'cha," House says primly to Wilson. Then he puts the lollipop in his mouth and sucks contentedly on it, hoping the candy's hiding his triumphant smile.

Wilson turns away quickly and makes himself very busy preparing the syringes for the heplock; he's got a triumphant smile of his own to hide.

Once he's got everything ready, Wilson gloves up and returns to the bedside. Wordlessly, he removes the EMLA patch from House's arm. Wordlessly, he inserts the IV catheter into the vein, then attaches the heplock. Wordlessly, he administers the flush and caps the lock. As he tapes everything into place, he glances up at House. "'Rampaging rhinoceros,' huh?"

House regards him. "I shouldn't have called her that," he says regretfully, seriously. He waits a beat. "I _meant_ to call her a hysterical hippopotamus."

They meet each other's eyes, and as Wilson sees House's mouth begin to quirk into a mischievous smile, he starts laughing. Then they're laughing together, and both men are thinking, _this might just work._

"So," Wilson says, "let's get the vancomycin started. Run it in over an hour, right?"

House nods, but doesn't say anything. Wilson hangs the antibiotic and attaches the tubing to the heplock, then sets the pump. He sits down and asks quietly, "What happens now?"

House is happy to switch from patient mode to doctor mode. "It's pretty boring. Assuming we've got the right antibiotic, we stay with it until a culture comes back clear. Should be able to go back to work in a few days. Won't be able to perform any invasive procedures until the cultures are clear, but that's what the Three Musketeers are for." Now he grins. "_And_ I won't be able to do any paperwork, _or_ clinic duty, until my hand heals. And I'm thinking that's gonna take a long, long time!"

Wilson grins back, and wishes he didn't have to ask the next question. "And if it's not the right stuff?"

"We try again. But the stats on MRSA for this region say this'll work." House looks away from him; Wilson decides not to press it.

He'd been hoping that House would outline his plan for the complications specific to his own case—the borderline kidney and liver function that are a direct result of his Vicodin use. The meds he's chosen might be the right ones for this strain of MRSA, but Wilson wants to know what their options will be if the meds themselves begin to cause renal failure or liver shutdown. Now Wilson decides that if House doesn't feel the issue's worth mentioning, it's only because the problem is unlikely to occur. _And I'm right here with him, watching him around the clock. Even if he's stupid enough to try to ignore it, I'll know. We'll catch it early; we'll deal with it._

The vancomycin's been infusing for twenty minutes when House begins to scratch at his arm, near the IV site.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asks.

"Probably nothing. A little irritation around the site; pretty common with the heavy-duty antibiotics."

But five minutes later the itching has spread, and House is beginning to look decidedly uncomfortable.

"An allergic reaction?" Wilson stands and prepares to shut off the pump.

"No," House says. "A side effect that, apparently, I'm susceptible to. Don't stop the infusion; cut the rate in half. And where'd you hide the code box?"

"How'd you know I brought one?" Wilson asks sheepishly as he steps out to retrieve the red metal box from a low bookshelf in the living room.

House rolls his eyes and calls after Wilson, "You were _born_ expecting bad things to happen; it's why you chose Oncology. You expect the worst, and you prepare for it."

Wilson returns with the box. "Now what?" He notes that House is growing increasingly restless; he's starting to become anxious himself.

House picks up right away on his anxiety. "Now take a breath and calm down. Not an emergency; just damned uncomfortable. Pull up 100mg of diphenhydramine; give it IV as fast as you can push it. That'll solve the problem."

"That's it?" Wilson's already got the med drawn up. He inserts the needle into a port in the tubing and empties the syringe quickly.

"That's it," House confirms. And less than a minute later, the scratching's already become less frantic. But House is engaging in another odd behavior; he's attempting, repeatedly, to draw Wilson into an argument.

Wilson is puzzled, and more than a little concerned. Then he realizes that what House is really doing is trying to fight off the sedating effect of the antihistamine. It's a losing battle, so Wilson just agrees quietly with every ridiculous statement House makes, as the pauses between arguments become longer.

House tries one last time; Wilson responds that House is absolutely correct—Cuddy's the worst administrator this side of Harry S. Truman. House wants to get angry that Wilson's refusing to be baited, but it seems so much easier just to close his eyes and concentrate on that familiar soft, kind voice floating somewhere above his head.

"It's okay. Just go with it, House. I'm here."

As House finally succumbs to the medication, he thinks he hears Wilson whisper, "I'm staying right here; count on it."

House has one more thing to say. He could swear he shouts, "Stop hovering!" But what comes out is, "tha's good," and it's scarcely louder than a sigh.


	9. Chapter 9: A QUESTION OF TRUST

**CHAPTER NINE: **A QUESTION OF TRUST

House sleeps soundly for a little over two hours. When he awakens, he cracks an eye open and discovers Wilson sitting by the bed, eyes trained on his laptop screen. "You still here?" House tries to sound irritated.

"Told you I would be." Wilson doesn't raise his eyes from the screen.

House grins. "Had ya scared for a while there, huh?"

Wilson looks up and says distractedly, "No, not at all. As a matter of fact, made good use of my time while you were being lazy. Found several studies that actually _recommend_ an admixture of vancomycin and diphenhydramine. Prevents the problem you had, and a whole laundry list of others. Would there be a reason why we didn't do it that way in the first place?" He regards House curiously.

"Yeah… the stuff fogs my brain." House waves his hand dismissively—trivial thing, doesn't matter at all.

Wilson knows better. It matters—a lot. Months earlier, a disgruntled patient had shot House. During the period immediately following the trauma, House had hallucinated, and later he'd shared the details of that hallucination with Wilson.

In his trauma-induced fantasy, House—who'd regained full use of his right leg—had accused Cuddy and Wilson of trading in his brain for a pair of jogging shoes. Distraught, he'd shouted at them that his brain was all he had. So Wilson isn't fooled at all; he knows that this 'brain fog' is one of the things House fears most.

"You trust me?" Wilson asks now. And he realizes, as he asks the question, that he no longer knows what the answer is. _If the answer's no, can't blame him, can I?_

"That depends. Trust you with some hot babe I'm looking to score with? Nope. Trust you to order a pizza? 'Pends on whether I'm in the mood for anchovies. Trust you to captain a lifeboat I happen to be in?"

House pauses for so long that Wilson closes the laptop and looks up at House—who's staring intently at him.

"You wouldn't be here if I didn't," House answers seriously. He holds Wilson's eyes a moment more, then breaks the gaze, swings his legs off the bed and stands. "Now how about you order that pizza?"

Wilson's still trying to process House's declaration of trust. "Uh… no; sorry. We're overdue at the hospital; gotta get a peak vanc level drawn."

"You can do that here, call someone to pick it up. I'm hungry!" House is practically whining.

Wilson stands up and smiles. "Oh no, ya don't! You're not sick. Odds are you're not going to _get_ sick. You aren't trapping me in this apartment for the next few days, cut off from the world, watching you not get sick. Might be an alien concept to you, but most people actually _enjoy_ getting out, interacting with their fellow human beings. Now let's go."

House plops down into the chair. "Hand hurts. Leg hurts."

"Lucky for you we're going to a hospital, then. I hear they know all about those sorts of things."

No go; looks like House is settling in for a good long sulk. "C'mon, House," Wilson coaxes. "Behave yourself, and there's dinner in it for you; I'll pay."

House looks up. "Throw in a beer and I'll consider it."

"You've got it."

They're leaving the hospital after the labwork when the inevitable happens—they run into Cuddy.

"Well, there he is—the man who single-handedly almost lost this hospital's very lucrative contract with the best home health agency in Princeton!"

"Single-handedly!" House hold up his bandaged hand and grins. "Clever. But I didn't use my hands at all, I—"

"Used your _mouth_," Cuddy interrupts. "Which, by the way, should be registered as a lethal weapon."

House turns to Wilson, who's been enjoying the exchange. "Whatever happened to polite society?" he asks him. "You know, those little civilities like _Good evening_, and _How are you_?"

"All those niceties ran screaming for cover the day some fool handed _you _a cane." Cuddy informs him. "Did you know you broke a record today? Five people threatened to quit. _Five_. Previous record was three—you held that one, too."

"Five? I'm impressed! Or my math is off. Heard it was two floor nurses, and those two from the agency. Two plus two equals… five?" House looks at Cuddy questioningly.

"Oh, the last one was me," she informs him pleasantly. "But then I realized that it'd be _so_ much easier to make the rest of your life a living hell if I retained my position of power. Over _you_. Welcome to Hell, House." Cuddy grins wickedly.

"_Save_ me, daddy!" House whispers urgently to Wilson.

Wilson lifts an eyebrow in disbelief. "You're kidding, right? Your behavior draws me the administrative equivalent of exile to Siberia, and you're looking to _me_ for help?" He bites back a smile and shakes his head at House.

Cuddy continues, "And you're just damned lucky that _he_ didn't threaten to quit too, once I told him he'd picked the short straw—that'd be _you_!"

"He can't quit," House mumbles. "Too many ex-Mrs. Wilsons counting on those monthly checks…."

Now both Cuddy _and _Wilson are glaring at him. House thinks maybe a quick change of subject is in order. He turns to Wilson.

"Hey—didn't you promise me dinner?"

"Not sure I can afford it, what with all those checks I have to write…." Wilson grumbles.

House grabs Wilson's arm and pulls. Then he stalks off as gracefully as he can with the cane in his left hand—but not before winking surreptitiously at Cuddy. Wilson heaves a resigned sigh, but before following House, he, too, winks at Cuddy.

At the restaurant, House eats well, and watches with amusement as the waitress flirts shamelessly with Wilson. When House stands to go to the restroom, Wilson scarcely spares him a glance—he's too busy complimenting the girl on her 'incredible people skills.'

Ten minutes later, Wilson realizes with alarm that House hasn't returned to the table. Wilson hurriedly excuses himself—the charming waitress is still talking—and makes his way to the restroom at the back of the restaurant. He bursts into the room—and sighs with relief when he spots House, sitting on a small bench by the door.

The relief is short-lived, however, when Wilson sees that House's face is pale, and twisted with pain.

_Don't make a big deal out of it_, Wilson tells himself. _Don't hover._ Wilson puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "What'd you do this time?"

House makes a visible effort to minimize his pain. "Didn't do anything. Just trying to give you some time to win over the lovely Susie."

"Sally. And let's try this again. What happened?"

House smiles wryly. "Some drunk was stumbling in while I was stumbling out. Slammed the door into my finger. You know—the one with the twitchy nerve?"

Wilson winces in sympathy, then carefully reaches for the injured hand. "No drainage; doesn't seem to have disturbed the incision."

"Nope; just helped me redefine the word _pain_. Fine now, though; no problem." House's stiff posture and the squint around his eyes belie the words.

Wilson leans over and removes the ever-present bottle of Vicodin from House's jacket pocket, shakes two of the pills into his hand, and offers them to House.

House regards him suspiciously. "What're those?"

Wilson rolls his eyes. "They're either Tic-Tacs on 'roids, or they're Vicodin." He pretends to study the pills. "I think they're Vicodin!" he concludes brightly.

"And you're… _voluntarily_… giving them to me because?"

_Because you're in agony. Because you're trying to pretend you're not—and that worries me. _"Just take 'em, House."

House is still hesitating. "Doctor's orders," Wilson says gently, and hands House the pills.

On the way home, Wilson doesn't miss it when House winces each time the car goes over a bump. When they arrive back at the apartment, he asks, "Want to hold off on the wound care 'til morning?"

House looks as if he'd like nothing better, but says, "Not a good idea. Let's just get it done; I'm fine."

_Like hell you are. _"Okay. I'll make it quick, and painless as possible. Go on and get ready for bed; I'll get the stuff." Wilson watches as House limps wearily to the bedroom.

When Wilson enters the room a few minutes later, House is already in bed, his head leaned back against a stack of pillows. He opens his eyes and begins to adjust his position, to give Wilson easier access to his hand.

"It's okay," Wilson says quickly. "I can get it; stay still." House doesn't argue, just closes his eyes again.

Wilson tends to the suture line and rebandages the hand with the utmost care. When he's through, House actually smiles. "Not bad; I give it a _2_ on the pain scale."

Wilson smiles back. "Damn! I was trying for a _7_. G'night, House." He shuts out the light and quietly leaves the room.

Fifteen minutes later, Wilson's got everything cleaned up, and he's thinking of getting some sleep himself. He's on his way to retrieve pillows and blankets from the closet when a sound stops him. He listens—there it is again. A muffled groan, followed by a not-so-muffled expletive. Wilson goes to the bedroom door. "You okay?"

House is lying with his back to the door, and doesn't turn around. "Sure. Guess the left shoulder's just not real happy about suddenly finding itself the sole support of the rest of my body."

Wilson enters the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He places his hands on House's shoulder.

"Tryin' to cop a feel?"

Wilson ignores the jibe and starts speaking in a low, soothing monotone. "When I was little," he says as his fingers find the knot in the muscle and begin to knead, "I'd overdo it on the basketball court on a regular basis. Shortest kid on the team—youngest, too; guess I had something to prove. Anyway, by bedtime, my shoulders would be on fire. My mom used to do this for me; really helped."

"You're not my mother," House mumbles into the pillow, but he doesn't move away. Wilson keeps up both the massage and the soothing patter.

"Isn't today Friday? 'Cuz if it is, then yeah, today's my day to be your mother. Tuesdays, I'm usually your conscience, and there's the occasional Thursday when I'm your babysitter. The rest of the time, I'm just your friend. Or I try to be. Not been doing so great the last few months, have I?" When the question elicits no sarcastic response, Wilson peers through the darkness at House's face. The lines have finally relaxed; his breathing's evened out—House is asleep.

Wilson stands up. "But don't you worry about it; gonna make it up to you," he whispers to his sleeping friend before he leaves the room.


	10. Chapter 10: FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE

**A/N:** _Just to clear up a few medical details—some of you are wondering why House suspected that the scalpel was contaminated with MRSA, and_ **KylaRyan** _was kind enough to bring it to my attention. Whenever a patient from a group living facility comes in to a hospital with an infected skin lesion, we must always operate on the premise that it's MRSA—and it usually is. Also, I've received a few questions asking for clarification on the EMLA patch. An EMLA patch numbs the skin over the vein so that children are spared most of the emotional trauma and physical pain of the needle stick. They're quite effective; whenever my son has to have labwork or an IV, I insist on a scrip for the patch beforehand. (unfortunately, most doctors--and many nurses--won't even tell you that such a thing exists.) _**mjf **

**CHAPTER TEN: **FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE

In the morning, Wilson's the first one awake. No surprise there, but when House is still asleep at 9:00am, Wilson decides he'll simply have to risk his wrath and wake him—they're already an hour late on the vancomycin.

Wilson prepares the infusion and hangs it on the pole. "House. Hey, c'mon; need to get you hooked up." House mumbles something and turns over, but makes no effort to sit up or even open his eyes.

Wilson gives up. "Just let me have your arm." He reaches for the heplock, grasps House's upper arm to steady it—and stops. "House. Wake up; gotta get a temp. Think you've got a fever."

House reluctantly opens his eyes. "If you'll let me sleep another fifteen minutes, I'll tell it to leave." He shuts his eyes again and burrows under the blankets.

"Not playing here; take the thermometer."

House groans, but does as he's told. When the digital thermometer beeps, he removes it from his mouth and glances at it. "Ninety eight point eight—most normal thing about me," he informs Wilson. "_Now_ can I go back to sleep?" He tosses the thermometer on the nightstand and turns over.

"Not 'til I get you hooked up." Wilson plugs the tubing into the heplock, still frowning at the unnatural warmth of House's skin. He grabs the thermometer, presses the memory button—and does a double take. "It's one-oh-one eight! _House_!"

"Didn't have my glasses; so sue me." House appears remarkably unconcerned at this potential first sign of MRSA infection.

Wilson shakes his head and gets the infusion started. They'd picked up the admixture of vancomycin and diphenhydramine last night from the hospital pharmacy, and Wilson knows that—between the fever and the antihistamine—House will sleep through the two hour administration. _And that's a good thing. Under normal circumstances, keeping him in one place for two hours would be impossible. _

As Wilson had predicted, House goes back to sleep even before Wilson finishes taping the IV tubing into place. Wilson waits a few minutes to make sure there won't be any problems, then quietly leaves the room.

He's not happy about the fever, of course, but he's trying to temper his worry with common sense. _Doesn't necessarily mean a whole lot; could just be a result of the injury itself, or it could even be a side effect of the vanc. Need to call the lab, check on the cultures, though. With any luck, the MRSA strain'll be susceptible to something less nephrotoxic than vancomycin. _

A call to the lab confirms that the bacterium cultured from the contaminated scalpel is resistant to the oral medications House had initially been taking. And so far, the lab tech tells Wilson, it appears that it's susceptible only to vancomycin.

Wilson groans. "Patient's renal function is just borderline normal as it is. Anything else showing any kind of a response at all?"

"Not so far, Dr. Wilson. I'll be sure to let you know, but I doubt we're going to see anything different than usual."

Wilson thanks the tech and hangs up. He shakes his head and sighs. _Figures. Guess I forgot it's House we're dealing with; no such thing as 'luck' where his health's involved. _

Wilson's next call is to Cuddy, who reminds him that if House's fever goes up, or if he begins to show _any_ other symptoms, she wants him admitted to the hospital immediately. Wilson assures her that he won't take any chances.

Cuddy's still asking questions; she wants to know about Wilson now. "How's it going, staying with House? Get a chance to talk to him yet?"

"No, not really," Wilson tells her. "Figured I'd give things a while to settle down, see how it goes with his health. Not fair to expect him to deal with my guilt, not on top of everything else."

Cuddy wonders if she should simply tell Wilson the real reason House is avoiding serious discussion. Now that both men have taken her into their confidence, it puts her in an awkward position. She remembers the way they'd both winked at her last night, though, and she smiles. _They're both working towards the same thing—just approaching it from opposite angles. Nothing wrong with that; I'll give it a while, see how it plays out. _

"But you're getting along okay?" she asks.

"So far, yeah. I'm keeping my 'hovering,' as he calls it, under control. And—believe it or not—seems like he's making a real effort to rein in some of his sarcasm. 'Course, that _could_ be because he's not feeling up to par, but right now, hey—I'll take what I can get!"

They end the phone call, both still laughing as they hang up.

Wilson occupies himself by logging on to PubMed from his laptop, and reading all the abstracts he can find concerning current treatment protocols for MRSA. He makes note of a few he's interested in; he'll download the full articles later.

He's never had much professional interest in infectious disease before; he's had to deal with the problem only peripherally, whenever an immune-compromised chemo patient would develop an infection. _But then I'd just pass 'em off to Nadel. Or House, if the case was interesting enough. Don't want to pass this one off, though. This one's not just professional; it's personal. And he's gonna get the best I've got—gonna prove to him that he can count on me. _

When the pump signals that the antibiotic infusion is complete, Wilson hurries to shut it off and get House disconnected. He doesn't want the noise to awaken House; with that fever, extra rest is the best thing for him right now.

House continues to sleep through all the activity, so Wilson uses the tympanic thermometer to get a quick check on the fever. House bats like an annoyed child at the probe in his ear, but doesn't wake. Wilson looks at the reading—101.4—and nods his satisfaction.

He'd told Cuddy he isn't going to take any chances, though, so he calls the lab back and arranges for a courier to pick up tonight's blood samples. This fever, slight as it is, grants House his earlier wish—House is confined to the apartment; Wilson'll draw the samples. They'll need a trough level on the vanc before starting the next dose; if the level's too high, it will be a pretty reliable sign that House's kidneys aren't handling the med as well as they should. _And then what? House might be satisfied to just assume it won't happen, but I'd be happier knowing how to handle it if it does. _

Wilson smiles at the memory of yesterday's conversation about the code box. _House is right; I do expect the worst, and I wanna be prepared for it. _

At 1:00pm, House wakes up for real—as evidenced by his bellowed order for "Lunch—_and_ the breakfast you let me sleep through!"

Wilson makes him wait while he does a quick assessment and gets a set of vital signs; everything looks good, and temp's staying in the one-oh-one range. House claims that his hand isn't quite as bothersome today—but Wilson thinks that probably has something to do with the way House is carrying it, cradled safely against his chest. At any rate, Wilson's just glad that House has finally figured out, on his own, that it's not a good idea to simply pretend that there's nothing wrong with the hand, and try to conduct business as usual. _Pain's a good teacher sometimes—even for House_, Wilson thinks.

While they're eating, Wilson points out that if they want to _continue_ to eat, he's going to have to make a run to the grocery store. He grabs a pen and starts making a list; he writes down all the necessities, and about half of the things House suggests—none of which bear any resemblance to the four basic food groups, and _all_ of which, House insists, "are essential for proper nutrition. And I'm a doctor; I know these things."

Wilson nods agreeably, and pretends to write down "three boxes of berry-banana Pop Tarts and some pistachio pudding cups—gotta love that neon green glow!"

"And… uh… what're _you_ going to be doing while I'm at the store?" Wilson asks hesitantly. _Probably don't wanna know—but then there's that pesky moral obligation to the rest of society…. _He's relieved when House points out that there are three solid hours of soaps coming on.

Wilson's at the door, ready to leave, when he thinks of one more thing. "I've got my cell phone with me. Call me if you need me, or if anything changes." House, engrossed in the soaps, doesn't answer. "Okay?" Wilson's not going anywhere without confirmation.

"Fine," House answers distractedly. "Sure you don't wanna leave the numbers for Poison Control, the police, and the fire department by the phone too?"

Wilson goes to stand in front of House, blocking the TV screen. "Those are all _911_, House. Think you can remember that?"

House looks at him and grins slowly, dangerously. "Think I'm gonna _need_ to?"

Wilson studies the mischievous face for a moment. "I'll make it quick," he sighs. "_Very_ quick." He heads to the door.

"Just don't forget that cool purple catsup!" House calls after him. Wilson slams the door—hard.


	11. Chapter 11: A CHANGE

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: **A CHANGE

Wilson's in the kitchen cooking dinner when it happens. As soon as he hears House call his name, he knows. He's surprised that he _isn't_ surprised, nor even panicked. And he realizes that he's known, from the moment he overheard the conversation in the hospital hallway, that this is how things are going to play out.

He calmly turns off the oven and puts the casserole dish in the refrigerator. He answers House, "Be right there," and his voice sounds normal. He washes his hands carefully. He takes three slow, deep breaths, and he walks into the living room.

House is sitting on the couch, and the first thing Wilson notices is that the room is unusually quiet—the TV's been turned off. The second thing Wilson sees is the strange mixture of fear and resignation in House's eyes. And the third thing Wilson becomes aware of is the smell.

"You just vomited?"

"Yeah," House says quietly. "Good thing, too. Got rid of some of the fluid that's… uh… not comin' out the normal way."

Wilson sits beside him on the couch. When he speaks, he matches House's quiet tone. "You're going into renal failure." It's not a question, but House nods anyway. "How long?"

"Guess it's been about eight hours, maybe ten." House reaches down to lift the loose cuffs of his sweatpants, revealing clearly swollen feet and ankles. He stares at his feet, doesn't look at Wilson, as he says, "We'll wanna get some bloodwork, confirm it."

Both Wilson and House know that they don't need any bloodwork to tell them that House's kidneys are threatening to shut down. Wilson doesn't point this out, though. He simply reaches for the automatic blood pressure cuff, wraps it around House's arm, and turns it on.

"One eighty-two over one-oh-two," he tells House. "I'll call an ambulance, let Cuddy know we're coming in." He stands and takes his cell phone out of his pocket.

"_No_. Let's just draw the bloodwork, omit the next dose of vanc. It can wait 'til morning."

Now Wilson _is_ surprised. House is a nephrologist; he _knows_ that this can't wait. Wilson wonders briefly if the renal failure is already interfering with House's mentation, clouding his thought processes. _No, don't think so. He's frightened, and he's in denial. He knows what's happening—just needs someone to lay it out, make it real. Not someone. Me._

Wilson puts the phone back in his pocket, sits down beside House again. He speaks softly. "This isn't a pizza, House. You don't get to make a choice here; I'm sorry. But I'll tell you what; we'll skip the ambulance and the ER. I'll call Cuddy, have her get a room ready. And I'll escort you personally. How's that?"

The resignation and the fear are still warring in House's eyes; acceptance hasn't even begun to make an appearance yet. "I don't know…." he says, and the confused vulnerability in his tone worries Wilson every bit as much as everything else.

"That's what we'll do then," Wilson responds confidently, as if House had answered in the affirmative. "I'll take you in, and I'll be with you every step of the way. You don't get a choice on _that_, either."

House smiles a little. "No surprise there," he says, and now Wilson hears the start of acceptance—_and_ relief.

"Glad you're seeing things my way," Wilson teases gently. "Gonna go call Cuddy; you just try to relax, okay?"

House nods, although both men know that asking House to relax is right up there with asking him to stop thinking. Wilson goes to the kitchen so he can talk with Cuddy in private. He knows Cuddy's going to want to send an ambulance, and he needs to make House's current state of mind clear to her.

Wilson's pleased that it doesn't take much convincing—Cuddy understands immediately, and promises to have a private room ready and to expedite the admission. She'll notify the lab of the tests that'll be necessary, and put the dialysis team on stand-by.

When Wilson returns to the living room, House is just as he'd left him—sitting stiffly on the couch, staring at a far wall. But he looks up at Wilson, and says steadily, "I'm guessing this won't be a drive-by. Mind packing a few things for me?"

Wilson's happy to have a mindless task; it'll give both him and House a few minutes to process what's happening now, what's going to happen when they get to the hospital. _This shouldn't have been so quick; he's way too sick, it's way too soon. His kidneys were borderline, sure, but just yesterday the labs were still in acceptable range. And I'm guessing his fever's at least 103 now._

Wilson opens the medicine cabinet to grab some toiletries—and suddenly the puzzle's solved. He reaches slowly for the flat cardboard container. He reads the label carefully, and then he reads it again before opening the box and checking its contents. Shaking his head sadly, he slides the small box into his pocket. For a moment, regret threatens to overwhelm him.

Before he returns to House, he reaffirms his promise to see House through this, no matter what. He splashes his face with cold water, breathes deeply, makes certain his expression shows none of the anguish he's feeling—this isn't the time to confront House about his discovery. _It's too late anyway; nothing to be gained by talking about it, not right now._

"Quick set of vitals, then we'll get going," Wilson tells House when he returns to the living room. House sits motionless throughout the procedure, and doesn't ask about the numbers. _Fever's 104 now; B/P is through the roof, and he's tachycardic. At least now I know why, for all the good that'll do him. God, House, I'm sorry. I'm so damned sorry…._

In the car, House doesn't speak at all. Wilson tries to think of something reassuring to say, or even just something comforting. But this is House—he knows too much. All the platitudes which would be gratefully accepted by anyone else will be seen by House as insults to his intelligence. So Wilson follows House's lead, and the drive is made in utter silence.

Once they arrive at PPTH, things happen faster than Wilson would've thought possible. House gives him the okay to go take care of the admission details "because you're good at all that boring clerical stuff," and when he arrives at House's room, the lab's just leaving. House has already been catheterized, and Wilson notes that there's less than an ounce in the tubing; not even enough to have reached the urine collection bag. Cuddy, who's overseeing all the activity, tells Wilson that House had ordered the dialysis team out of the room, pending the results of the labwork, but that he _has_ agreed to the IV administration of Lasix, a diuretic that might help his kidneys do their job.

House—never the most compliant of patients—isn't actually _in_ the bed; he's lying _on _it, and looking as if he might bolt at any second. He's even still got his favorite pair of athletic shoes on—but they can't hide the edema in his feet and ankles. Wilson can tell that the swelling's increased just since they left home. And now, under the unforgiving glare of the hospital lighting, Wilson can't deny that there's also facial edema, and that there's a fine tremor in House's hands—all signs of kidney failure.

Cuddy and Wilson look at each other, and then both look at House. Cuddy wonders if it's just all the hospital trappings—the gown, the IV, the room itself—that are making House appear so ill, so suddenly frail, or if things really might be as serious as they seem. Wilson doesn't wonder at all; he knows.

After a couple of minutes of a silence that's uncomfortable for all of them, Cuddy clears her throat. "I think I'm gonna go light a fire under the lab; we need those results." She throws Wilson a _good luck_ glance as she leaves.

Wilson walks over to the bed. "Some sort of fashion statement?" he asks, indicating House's shoe-clad feet.

"Yeah; figured they'd give the gown something to aspire to," House answers.

But Wilson's noticed something; the athletic shoes are untied, the laces loosened—and the tops of the shoes are still biting into House's ankles. "You couldn't get them off."

"_State the Obvious_; my favorite game," House answers irritably. But he lies there too quietly and allows Wilson to gently work the shoes off his swollen feet. Once they're off, Wilson quickly pulls the blanket up from the end of the bed and covers House's legs.

"Outta sight, outta mind?" House questions dryly.

"No; thought you might be co—. Yeah." Wilson smiles apologetically.

"Works for me," House says in a matter-of-fact voice, and reaches for the TV remote. "Wanna catch some Saturday Night Wrestling while we're stuck here playing _Let's Pretend_?"

_I'm doing the best I can, House. _"Works for me," Wilson echoes, and sits at the bedside, staring blindly at the TV screen, while they both pretend they're thinking about anything except the pending lab results.


	12. Chapter 12: IT ALL MAKES SENSE

**CHAPTER TWELVE: **IT ALL MAKES SENSE

Cuddy's back in under ten minutes, the results of House's bloodwork in hand. Her face is grim. House holds out his hand, and she gives him the thin slip of paper.

House looks at the numbers, nods his head, and passes the results to Wilson. Then he says to Cuddy, "Might as well get the dialysis team back in here, make 'em earn all that overtime they're clocking."

"I'll take care of it. They'll be following the plan you wrote out on Thursday?"

House makes a scoffing noise. "Well, _yeah_. Didn't figure out all that stuff just to hear myself think! Although that _is_ always a treat, ya know, seeing a brilliant mind in action."

Cuddy tries to smile at the remark, winds up settling for turning quickly away from the bed—her eyes are suddenly moist.

Wilson puts an arm around Cuddy's shoulders. "Back in a minute, House—need a word with Cuddy. You be okay?"

"Yeah. Take your time. Easier to make the team miserable without you here spoiling all my fun anyway."

Wilson manages a small smile for House. "You behave yourself." He leads Cuddy out of the room and into a small visitors' lounge, empty this time of night.

They sit, and Wilson waits while Cuddy pages the dialysis team to House's room. Then he removes the flat cardboard package from his pocket and hands it to Cuddy. She reads the label as carefully as Wilson had, then she, too, checks the remaining contents before handing it back to Wilson. She doesn't speak; her expression of dismay says it all.

"I killed him," Wilson states flatly.

"Excuse me?"

"Remember last time he was having problems with his shoulder? It was during Tritter's investigation. And I, in my role as his loving, concerned friend, told him it wasn't the _cane_ causing the problem, it was his conscience. His conscience…. Then I yelled at him, ordered him outta my office." Wilson's up and pacing now, and his voice is cracking, laced with regret.

"So now, as a _direct_ result of my amateur psychoanalysis—my _incorrect diagnosis_—I wasn't aware of _this_." He stares at the box in his hand. In a swift, frustrated motion, he crumples it in his fist.

Cuddy goes to him wordlessly, guides him back to the chair. She squeezes his arm. "I'm still not understanding," she says. She keeps her voice deliberately calm, neutral. "He's been having shoulder pain, so he sought medical attention for it. Yes, it complicates matters that it was being treated with prednisone. Rough on the kidneys. Rougher on the immune system. But… this doesn't change the course of treatment now. If you _had_ known, what difference would it have made?"

Wilson shakes his head. "You just don't get it, do you?" He answers his own question; "No, I don't suppose you would." He rests his head wearily in his hands, and starts speaking. His voice is so low that Cuddy has to strain to hear him, and she quickly realizes that he isn't really speaking to her—he's thinking aloud, analyzing, trying to comprehend.

"This time, when his shoulder started bothering him, he didn't come to me. He didn't even stay within the hospital. He went across town, to Princeton General. Where they wouldn't laugh at him, accuse him of creating his own problems. Where they wouldn't make him _beg_ for every bit of pain relief he needs."

Wilson stands, begins to pace again. Then he turns to face Cuddy. "You know, I tell him I consider our friendship an ethical responsibility. And… I let him interpret that to mean that I act as a buffer, shielding everyone from him, his attitude, his cruelty. But that's not it; not what I mean at all. I'm not shielding everyone else; I'm protecting _him_. From them." Wilson smiles a little at the confusion on Cuddy's face, sits down next to her.

"Remember how upset he was when you replaced the carpet in his office, after he was shot?"

Cuddy rolls her eyes. "How could I forget? Everyone in a five mile radius knew how upset he was; he made sure of it!"

"I came up with that whole Asperger's ploy to get that carpet back. But… I'm not certain it _was_ a ploy. I've known House a lotta years, and I'm still trying to figure him out. He may not have Asperger's Syndrome, but there _is_ something… missing. Something essential. Some grown-up _secret_ that he… doesn't get." Wilson stops speaking and looks at Cuddy to make certain she's following him. Cuddy nods and indicates that he should go on; she's fascinated.

"For all his brilliance," Wilson continues slowly—he's figuring this out as he goes along—"there's still a very big part of House that's… a child. A kid, in need of protection. He sees everything in black and white. It's either right or wrong; logical or illogical. Fair… or unjust. There are no grays in his world, Cuddy. He defined what Tritter was doing as _wrong_; he called it an abuse of power. And—in a world without grays—that justified _everything_ that House did, and _everything_ he allowed to happen to the rest of us. In his mind, he was simply trying to right a wrong, and the collateral damage was the cost of justice."

Wilson looks earnestly at Cuddy, pleading for her understanding. "When he left my office, after my self-righteous speech about his shoulder, I thought he was furious; I know _I_ was. But Cuddy, he wasn't angry. He was… confused. Hurt. A kid, who'd been unjustly slapped down by an angry parent. I didn't get that then. He'd come to me looking for protection, validation that he was doing the right thing. He may not have even realized that's what he was doing; he just knew that was how things were supposed to work. And I let him down."

"I was no help either," Cuddy says. "I told him basically the same thing about his shoulder. Told him _something_ must've changed; asked him if he'd had a fight with the wife." Cuddy winces at the memory of her cruel sarcasm. "You're right; he must've felt, these last few months, like he didn't have a friend in the world, no one to turn to."

"Last month, he actually _did_ give me a chance," Wilson remembers. "Tried to tell me he was having problems with urinary retention. I blamed it on the Vicodin, of course. Gave 'im hell before I gave him a scrip. I know that urinary retention is a side effect, _not_ an indication of addiction. But I had to get in my little dig. And he… didn't even fight back. He was on the prednisone at that point. If I hadn't been such an ass, he would've told me; I know it. I could tell he wanted to talk; I blew him off, practically threw the scrip at him. And before that, the whole brain cancer fiasco? He _was_ depressed; why wouldn't he be? The Ketamine had failed—but not before giving him just a mean little taste of what life is like for the rest of us. He'd have been better off if it'd never worked at all. And then Tritter, and the Vicodin, and the lies…."

Wilson is silent for a moment. Cuddy waits patiently; this is something he's needed to talk out for a long time, and he needs to do it his way. "And—as if all that weren't enough to throw _anyone_ into depression—he has to deal with _more_ physical discomfort, and they put him on steroids. Depression's one of the biggest side effects. And he had no one to talk to. No one. So he comes up with this crazy scheme. I have every reason to believe that my best friend has inoperable cancer, and what do I do? Turn over every rock, call in every favor, in search of a cure? Support him in every way he'll allow? No; I'm too busy hiding, denying, licking my own wounds. And we call _him_ selfish?"

Cuddy had wondered about that—and she isn't the only one. Wilson's conspicuous absence, during the time House had allowed them to believe he was suffering from brain cancer, had been the talk of the hospital. Everyone knew that House's best friend—his _only_ friend—was the head of Oncology. And soon, everyone also noticed that Wilson was mysteriously uninvolved in House's diagnosis and treatment. Cuddy and Wilson haven't talked about it since then, so Cuddy approaches it cautiously.

"That must have been an awful time for you," she says sympathetically. "Thinking he was terminal, feeling powerless to help."

Wilson laughs harshly. "Sure. Couldn't deal with it, House dying of cancer. Ironic, huh? That's what everyone thought. After they got hold of the records, the kids came to me for help—all three of them. Know what I told them? I said if House had _wanted_ me to go over his records, he'd've asked me himself. Told 'em I was respecting his privacy. Then I walked away. Wanna know the truth? He'd refused to let me go over the records; I'd already asked him. So I was… hurt. I was _sulking_ because he hadn't told me, hadn't wanted me involved. Like I'd given him _any_ reason, since Tritter, to feel like I'd help him. I was so… worn out, from all of it…. When he didn't come to me, figured he didn't care anymore. Figured _I'd_ better learn not to care. Like _that'd_ ever work…." Wilson shakes his head at his own stupidity. When he resumes speaking, his voice has a faraway quality; Cuddy knows he's reliving the emotions he'd gone through when he'd believed House to be terminally ill.

"The one thing I did right… after we found out he'd made it all up… I was just so damned _relieved_ that he wasn't dying… that I couldn't even be annoyed with him. I tried. I _wanted_ to be angry. And all I was, was… sad. That he honestly thought that no one around here would care. That _I_ didn't care. He was willing to go off alone, to have God-knows-what injected into his _brain_, for a chance at… what? Can you… hell, Cuddy, can you even _begin_ to imagine how desperate you'd have to be, to…." Wilson swallows hard. "I think that's when I started to realize… my role in all of this. Too late, huh?" He looks beseechingly at Cuddy, begging her to contradict his last statement.

"No," she says firmly. "It's not too late. We're gonna get him through this. And… you need to know something." Cuddy sends a silent apology to House for what she's about to say. "House told me on Thursday, after the accident, that you did the right thing, leaving him on Christmas Eve." Wilson starts to interrupt; she shakes her head at him and continues, "He said you did the right thing for _him_, but that it was wrong for _you_. I think he's more aware of your… protection of him… than you give him credit for. And he's worried for you. He's afraid that if this… kills him… it'll destroy you, too. That's why… he _said_ he didn't want your help."

Wilson is stunned. "It's all been like… some awful dance, hasn't it? He comes forward, tries to fix things, and I pull away. Then it's my turn, and _he_ closes down. Damn!" He slams his fist down onto the arm of the chair.

"None of that matters now," Cuddy says, covering his fisted hand gently with her own. "If everything you've just told me is right, he needs you now, more than he ever has before. And _you_ need to be there for him. You told me yourself that he's always expected that of you. And I saw the look in his eyes, in the clinic on Thursday, when he told you to leave. He _still_ expects, no matter what else has happened, and no matter what he _says_, that you'll be there for him. Protecting him. So give him what he expects, even if…." Cuddy can't finish the sentence.

But Wilson can. "Even if… _especially_ if… it's the only thing I _can_ do for him now." He nods firmly, almost to himself, and looks steadily at Cuddy. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my friend."


	13. Chapter 13: TRUTH BE TOLD

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: **TRUTH BE TOLD…

As Wilson returns to House's room, he hears House yelling before he sees him. "And I'm telling you, you only need to go with the venous catheter! We're not looking at years of dialysis here—maybe three _weeks_. Only reason the vanc caused renal failure is I've been taking—" House has seen Wilson; he clamps his mouth shut.

_It's now or never. First chance to let him know that I'm here for him—really here this time. _Wilson strides into the room, says authoritatively, "Patient's been on corticosteroids for acute shoulder pain for fifty eight days. Came off 'em as soon as he recognized he was going into renal shutdown. His baseline's always a little out of whack because he's also a chronic pain patient, for which I prescribe opioids. As soon as the effects of the vancomycin on his kidneys wear off, he should begin to return to baseline. Do as he says."

"But Dr. Wilson, there's nothing in his records about steroid administration, and we were told--"

"I don't care _what_ you were told. It was Dr. House's option to seek private medical treatment, away from this hospital, and he chose to exercise that option. This conversation is over. The patient needs kidney dialysis, and he needs it now. Do your job."

Throughout Wilson's speech, he hasn't dared look at House. Now, he walks to the bedside. House's breathing is too fast; his eyes are only partially open, and they're not quite focused. It's evident that he's still feverish, and that the toxins in his system are quickly accumulating. The argument with the dialysis team was apparently too much for him. He tries to focus on Wilson, to say something.

"Shut up, House; we'll talk later. Now just lie there quietly and let these nice people get you hooked up." He stands there until House closes his eyes, then moves away so the dialysis team can get to work.

"If you'll just step out for a few minutes, Dr. Wilson, we'll get this done as quickly as we can."

House's eyes fly open, and the rate on the cardiac monitor jumps up.

"No. I'll be staying," Wilson says quickly, firmly. "Any problems with that, take it up with Dr. Cuddy." House closes his eyes; Wilson sees his heart rate settle down.

The team sees it too, and no one offers any further argument. They'd gotten off to a shaky start with House, but Wilson knows they're the best in the business, and that House's well-being really is their main concern.

House doesn't even wince when the venous catheter is inserted into his jugular vein by the radiologist, stays absolutely still as placement is checked. Wilson isn't certain that House is fully aware that the minor surgical procedure is over; he hasn't given any indication that he's even conscious. But once the actual dialysis has been started, House opens his eyes and pretends to listen as one of the team slowly explains to him that this first session will be only an hour, to ascertain that he can tolerate the dialysis, and so as not to cause a drastic fluctuation in his blood pressure. He nods politely as the 'patient education' continues, and the tech tells him that he'll be hooked up to the machine for about four hours every day for a while, and that as the retained fluid decreases, it'll be four hours every three days or so. Then he thanks the woman for her explanation.

That's when Wilson realizes how very ill House is. Of course House knows everything he's just been 'educated' about, and a hell of a lot more. And a _normal_ House wouldn't have listened patiently to the simplistic spiel; he'd have made some cutting remark at the start, probably sent the girl from the room in tears.

House sleeps through the dialysis session, but he isn't peaceful. Wilson listens as he moans low in his throat, watches as his head tosses restlessly against the pillows. He manages to buy House some real comfort at one point when he gently places a cool washcloth on his forehead, but it doesn't last long. A sharp hitch in House's breathing draws Wilson's attention, and he sees House pull his right leg up. Under the thin sheet, Wilson can see the ruined quadriceps muscle in House's thigh contracting—the cluster of spasms ripples the sheet like a pulse, gently, rhythmically. When House allows the leg to relax again, Wilson moves the sheet aside and places a pillow under his knee. He hopes it might help; he knows it won't.

At the end of the hour, just over a liter of fluid has been removed from House's body. Once the equipment's been moved away, Wilson listens to his lungs; he's becoming concerned about House's rapid respiratory rate. Although the high fever offers partial explanation, Wilson is worried about fluid in his lungs. He hears rales in the bases of both lungs; this confirms his suspicion.

House awakens as Wilson is concluding his assessment. There's a brief look of confusion on his face, but he takes in his surroundings and relaxes again. "You knew," he says to Wilson.

Wilson understands immediately. "About the prednisone? No. Just found out, when I was packing your stuff. House, I'm so sorry. For everything."

House smiles as his eyes close again. "You knew," he repeats. "'S okay, then… you knew." This seems to bring House some sort of comfort, so Wilson goes with it.

"Yeah; it's okay. I know about the prednisone now, and it's okay. We'll handle it; not a problem." Before Wilson finishes speaking, House, still smiling, has drifted off again. Wilson wonders why it seems so important to House that Wilson is aware of the prednisone.

_Was he afraid I'd be angry? Wouldn't believe him? Or did it bother him that much that something had changed and I didn't know about it? Maybe… he's just relieved that I didn't use his shoulder pain as a weapon against him. This time._

"Don't worry about it," Wilson whispers to his sleeping friend. "Don't worry about _anything_. I get it now; I understand. Done with all that crazy dancing, all those missed steps. Gonna get you well; gonna get us back in sync. That's a promise."

Wilson sinks into the bedside chair, studies the monitors and sees that—for right now—everything's stable. But he doesn't allow himself to relax. _Meant everything I just said, House; you don't worry about anything. This whole stupid months-long dance? My turn to lead, and I'm gonna do it right. Because a misstep could be fatal._

It's 4:20 in the morning; outside the window, it's dark and peaceful. House seems comfortable for the moment. Wilson stretches and shakes off his fatigue; he's made a very big promise—and he intends to keep it.


	14. Chapter 14: CONFUSION

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: **CONFUSION

Cuddy comes in at 6:30am. She hands Wilson a cup of coffee and the latest bloodwork results. The coffee's good; the lab results are not.

"I was hoping the dialysis would at least lower his potassium," Wilson says as he studies the numbers.

"He'll have a longer session later today; that'll help. Some of those numbers are so out of whack that I'm surprised he's doing as well as he is; wouldn't even expect most patients to be lucid."

"I'm not sure he is," Wilson tells her. "He's in and out. Had a strange conversation about the prednisone after the dialysis team left; all he seemed to care about was that I knew. He's awakened a couple times since then. First time he reminded me that it's my turn to buy the beer and rent the movie tonight; do you know how long it's been since we actually _did_ that? And the second time, he told me I looked like hell, and that recent studies indicate that having to look at worried people hovering at your bedside increases recovery time." Wilson smiles.

Cuddy smiles too. "That's our House—a true diplomat. But he's right; you _do_ look exhausted. I think that—"

"Give it up," Wilson interrupts. "I'm not leaving."

Cuddy smiles again. "Exhausted _and_ cranky! What I was going to say was, I think I'll call Housekeeping, get a cot brought up from Peds. Figure it's easier to bring in another bed than it would be to convince you to go find a couch."

"You're right, and… I'm sorry I snapped. Thanks. For the coffee, and the cot, and… just, thanks."

"Hey," Cuddy says gently, "I understand." And he knows she does.

There's a sound from the bed, and they turn to look at House; his eyes are open, and he's looking at the paper in Wilson's hand. "Those the labs? Lemme see," he croaks out. But in the short time it takes Wilson to cross over to the bed, he's gone back to sleep.

Wilson looks at Cuddy. "I don't like his respiratory rate. It's above 30, even when he's sleeping. And he's got fluid in his lungs."

"I know. I'll increase the Lasix, see if that helps. I'm also thinking of calling Chase in; bring him up to speed, get his opinion on the meds."

Wilson nods. "Good idea. If we don't start seeing some improvement soon, House is gonna wind up in ICU anyway; might as well have an intensivist on the case."

"I'll go call him then, and I'll have the cot sent up. I'm not putting it in here just to crowd the room with more furniture, by the way. I expect you to use it."

Wilson smiles tiredly. "I will. Eventually. Until he's stable, though, I don't think I'll be sleeping much." As if to make the point, he drains the last of his coffee.

"Yeah. About that. I've also arranged for the kitchen to send up your meals. Breakfast should be here soon. I hear it comes with coffee." Cuddy gives his arm a squeeze, and leaves the room before he can even try—again—to express his gratitude.

Before sitting back down, Wilson adjusts House's pillows; he's been so restless that they're in a tangle now. The movement causes House to awaken. He focuses slowly on Wilson's face. "Kinda thirsty," he says. He runs a cracked tongue over dry, swollen lips.

"Yeah, I know. But you're not putting out much. Let's try a few ice chips, okay?"

House nods, and reaches out his left hand to attempt to take the spoon. Wilson sees the uncontrollable tremor, and quickly catches the hand with his own, lowers it back to the bed as he spoons the chips into House's mouth. But House, too, has noticed the tremor—and now he's staring worriedly at his hand.

Wilson somehow manages to laugh. "Good thing you're normally right-handed," he tells House. "You'd give us lefties a bad name!" He's ashamed of the relief he feels when House closes his eyes and drifts off again before they can discuss the worsening symptom.

A nurse comes in to get a set of vital signs and drain the urine bag. "How much?" he asks her.

She holds up the cup. "Less than 200cc," she tells him.

He looks at his watch. "About 16cc an hour. Better than nothing, I guess."

She smiles sympathetically. "If you need anything at all, Dr. Wilson, you just let me know. We've been trying to stay out of your way; Dr. Cuddy said you'd be seeing to most of Dr. House's needs yourself, and she asked that we bother you as little as possible. But I didn't want you to think we were neglecting him—or you. Just buzz if you want something, okay?"

"I appreciate it, Judy. We're fine for right now, but if you could check on when my coffee might be arriving, that'd be a big help."

Five minutes later, Judy returns carrying a large, steaming ceramic mug of fresh coffee. Wilson takes the cup gratefully. "This doesn't look—or smell—like cafeteria issue," he tells her, puzzled.

"Just made a fresh pot in the nurse's lounge. And I figured you needed some _serious_ caffeine; those styrofoam cups hold about two teaspoons!"

Wilson smiles his thanks at her, and she smiles back. "Just wish there were something I could do for Dr. House, too," she tells him.

Surprised, Wilson asks, "You… uh… get along with House?"

Judy laughs. "Oh no, not at all! The man's an ogre. But I'll never forget what he did for that kid, Jesse—you know, that leukemia patient of yours. Must've taken him _hours_."

"Oh yes, Jesse Beele. I remember… House consulted on a stubborn infection we couldn't shake. But you'll have to refresh my memory; it's been a while." Wilson hopes that Judy hasn't guessed that he hasn't any idea _what_ House had done for the kid.

"Good heavens; I'd have thought that a kindness that big—especially coming from Dr. House—would be something you'd remember!"

Wilson just smiles vaguely, as if he's trying to recall, and Judy continues.

"Dr. House asked me why Jesse was always crying, so I explained how his folks lived so far away, and they couldn't miss any more work without losing their jobs, and they had all those other kids to worry about. So then he said, 'So why the hell don't you distract the sniveling brat?'" Judy and Wilson both laugh. House moans and turns his head at the sound, and she lowers her voice.

"I told him that the only thing that made Jesse happy was country music, and we couldn't keep it on because Jesse's roommate, that kid in traction, hated it, and screamed every time we turned on the radio. So then Dr. House muttered something about 'Pediatrics, God's Own special Hell on Earth,' and he stalked off. The next night, he came down to Peds and tossed an iPod at me, said someone had left it in the lobby. Told me to give it to Jesse, said it might buy me a few minutes of peace and quiet. I checked the playlists; it was all country music. Over three hundred songs on that thing!"

Judy leans forward and whispers, "I was gonna let Jesse use it for the night, take it to Lost and Found in the morning. Couldn't figure out why _he_ hadn't turned it in. Turns out, wasn't _lost_ at all. Guess he forgot about the _GH _engraved on the back."

Wilson stares at her. "Thanks, Judy. That _had_ slipped my mind. Thank you very much for the reminder."

Judy looks one more time at House; Wilson sees real compassion in her eyes. She shakes her head sadly, repeats "Please, let me know if I can help," and then House and Wilson are alone again.

Wilson stands smiling down at his friend. "You are _so_ busted, House," he whispers affectionately. "Lost your iPod, huh? Tossed it out the window at screeching cats, huh? Glad I spared you the carelessness lecture—for a change. Glad I got you a new one for your birthday. _Really_ glad Judy has a big mouth."

Wilson wonders what House's reaction would be if he knew how many people were pulling for him, how many lives he's touched in a positive way. He imagines House's scowl at the news, hears the sarcastic putdown—and sees the disbelieving vulnerability in the expressive blue eyes. Wilson leans down, whispers even more quietly, "It's okay, House; your secret's safe with me. _All_ your secrets are safe… with me."


	15. Chapter 15: PAINFUL REALIZATION

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: **PAINFUL REALIZATION

When House awakens in the early afternoon, the strength of his voice startles Wilson. "How long we been here?" he demands, eyeing the IV poles around his bed.

Wilson looks at his watch. "About eighteen hours now, I guess. Why?"

"By my calculations, should've had two doses of vancomycin by now. Don't see any."

Wilson peers closely at House's face. He seems lucid; he's certainly coherent, but…. "Don't you remember? Chase was here a while ago; we discussed it with him. Last vanc level was still too high; gotta hold off until it drops."

House sits up in the bed. "No! Need the vanc; fightin' MRSA here, remember? Seems like you're the one with the memory problem. Now let's get it in here; you people are morons. Even stuck in bed, I'm a better doctor than all of you put together; good thing I'm on the case!" House is becoming increasingly agitated; Wilson sees that he's begun to perspire. And now his respiratory rate is not only too fast, his breathing's become labored—he looks and sounds like he's just run a few miles.

Wilson stands and walks to the head of the bed, waits until House looks at him. When he's certain he has House's attention, he tries again. "House, there's nothing to worry about. The vanc level is still within therapeutic range. We're having some problems with your kidneys; they aren't excreting the drug. The good news with that is, the vanc's still covering the infection. Do you understand?"

House explodes angrily, "I understand the MRSA's _not_ being treated! And I understand… I understand…." His voice trails off abruptly; his eyes dart around the room, and Wilson sees the beginnings of panic. When Wilson places a hand on his shoulder he frowns, and looks up at Wilson. "Why… are we… here?" His voice is low again, and strained; he's pulling in air between words.

Wilson presses the call bell discreetly. "We're here because your kidneys are shutting down. And you have an infection; we're treating it, and everything's fine," he says soothingly. _Pulse ox is down to 88 percent; respiratory rate's over 40; looks like he's starting to head towards respiratory arrest._

Judy enters the room. Never removing his eyes from House's face, Wilson tells her calmly, "Page Dr. Chase. Stat. And get me two milligrams lorazepam IV." She nods and hurries off.

"You're lying to me! Thought I wouldn't figure it out? Tricked me; forced me into rehab, tried to tell me I've got an infection. Kidneys are _fine_, I'm a nephrologist, I'd know! You can't hold me here; haven't done anything wrong. I'm outta here!" House stops shouting, but begins to try and get out of bed.

Chase and Judy arrive simultaneously, as Wilson struggles to restrain House. Chase takes the syringe from her hand and moves quickly to the bedside. "What happened?" he asks Wilson as he injects the sedative into the IV port.

Wilson's got his hands clamped around House's shoulders, and he's still got his eyes locked with House's. He waits until he feels the tense shoulders begin to relax, and sees House's eyelids droop as the med takes effect. He lowers House gently back onto the pillows, then turns to Chase.

"He woke up, seemed okay at first. Then he got upset about the hold on the vancomycin, started yelling, and then he just… lost it. Suddenly didn't have any recall of why he was here. Accused me of putting him in rehab."

Wilson, eyes full of worry, is still watching House. Even unconscious, his breathing's too rapid—and he's working too hard for each breath. "He's been tachypneic since admission; now his sats are falling. Need to get 'im up to the unit, put him on a vent until his lungs clear."

Chase shoots Wilson an odd look, then begins to examine House. _Probably feels I'm overreacting; maybe I am_, Wilson thinks.

Wilson waits silently, watching the monitors, while Chase does a thorough exam. Wilson's puzzled; House's heart rate and respiratory rate aren't falling, despite the sedative.

"I agree with you about ICU," Chase says when he completes his assessment. "But he doesn't need a ventilator; he's compensating well right now. We'll get him on oxygen, continue to monitor his status."

Wilson doesn't agree, but there's a more pressing concern at the moment. "The Ativan isn't doing anything to settle down his vitals; what's going on?"

Chase frowns. "Don't know."

Wilson's still watching House, and suddenly it dawns on him. "Look at his leg!" House's right leg is twitching beneath the blanket, and—even through the sedation—House is moving it continually, apparently trying for a more comfortable position. "Up his pain meds," Wilson tells Chase. "That'll help."

Chase stares blankly at Wilson for a moment, checks a page in the chart, then speaks hesitantly. "He's… uh… not _on_ pain meds; we didn't order anything. Wasn't an acute concern, and…." Chase stops speaking as the anger builds in Wilson's eyes.

Wilson turns to Judy. "I want 10mg Dilaudid IV in here _now_. And after you do that, you get Dr. Cuddy on the phone and tell her she has two minutes to get down here," he bites out quietly, viciously. Then he wheels on Chase, and begins to shout.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking? _Were_ you thinking? House is right; he's a better damned doctor _unconscious_ than the rest of us on our best days! It's no wonder—"

Cuddy had already been on her way to check on House; she comes swiftly into the room, a look of panic on her face. "What's going on?"

Wilson turns to include her in his tirade. "Glad you could join us, Dr. Cuddy; you've made it just in time to watch your patient deal with not only MRSA and renal failure, but now untreated pain and the torture of withdrawal as well! You think his leg was just gonna conveniently take a vacation while you dealt with his other problems? You just _forget_ that you're treating not only a critically ill man, but also a chronic pain sufferer? He's _physically dependent_ on those meds you've been denying him for over eighteen hours—no wonder he thought I'd tricked him into rehab! And the dialysis would've removed any Vicodin he had in his system; isn't quite as effective on the vanc, but it's _damned_ good at leeching out hydrocodone!"

Wilson pauses to take a breath; he's got plenty more to say, but a quiet moan from the bed sends him swiftly to House's side instead.

The combination of Wilson's shouting, the untreated leg pain, and his building withdrawal symptoms are causing House enough distress that his growing restlessness is evident, despite the dose of lorazepam. Judy's just returned with the Dilaudid, and Wilson yanks the syringe from her hand and begins to administer it while he talks softly to House.

Wilson's running on caffeine and adrenalin, anger and stark fear. He looks at the faces around him, thinks, _Screw it; gonna give him what he needs_, and blocks it all out. The man who, moments before, had sounded like an angry dictator, is now a father crooning over a fretful newborn. His voice is soft, loving, soothing. "It's okay now; you'll feel better in a minute, I promise, buddy. It's okay, I'm here. They didn't know, but I'm fixing it now; it's all right. Everything's gonna be fine… just fine…."

He finishes administering the med, hands Judy the empty syringe and takes the basin of cool water she's holding. He sets it on the bedside table, and wrings out a cloth. "Shhh; it's okay now, promise," he whispers as he gently wipes the sweat from House's face. "Let go; you're safe now. It's all better, just let go and relax; I'm right here with you, and it's all okay." The room is full of people, but Wilson's creating a safe, warm bubble for his agonized friend; they're the only two here.

"I understand why you thought you were in rehab; you were trying to tell me you were in withdrawal—sorry I didn't get it. Missed the clues, huh? That whole thing with your left hand… but _you_ didn't miss the clues. You never do, do you, not even when you're sick…." Wilson's gentle murmur and the medication are beginning to have an effect— House is still now; he's ceased battling invisible monsters.

"We took care of it; it's all gonna be fine. I'm here; you're safe—it's okay." The same phrases, over and over and over. When the tears start spilling down the sides of House's face, Wilson's heart twists in his chest. As a doctor, he knows it's simply the body's physiological reaction to the release of extreme stress or pain. He's seen it hundreds of times. Chemo patients after a violent bout of vomiting, unconscious accident victims as the first pain meds hit, even dying patients as the body lets go, shuts down. Intellectually, Wilson _knows_ that the phenomenon has nothing to do with crying, in the emotional sense. But still, it's always bothered him. And now, it's House.

"Shh, shh, shh, all better now, all better. You're safe. I'm here…." He tenderly dries the tears, never once ceasing the soft words of protection, of comfort. Only when House's heart rate has decreased and his breathing's evened out, only when he's finally fallen into something resembling a natural, comfortable sleep, does Wilson turn from the bed and acknowledge the others.

Cuddy looks stricken, but she meets his eyes and speaks calmly. "We were wrong. There are no excuses for what just happened. I'm sorry."

Chase, pale and shaken, steps forward. "The oversight was unforgivable. I… there's nothing to say." He looks down at the floor.

Wilson glares at the two of them for a moment more, then takes a deep breath. "He's not in pain now; that's all that matters. Let's get him up to the unit."

As House's bed is rolled to the elevators, it's a quiet, subdued procession that accompanies him. And each one of them is silently asking forgiveness from the sleeping man—Wilson most of all.


	16. Chapter 16: INTERPRETATION ON OVERSIGHT

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN: **INTERPRETATIONS ON AN OVERSIGHT

Chase enters the Diagnostics office and stops short; Foreman and Cameron are here, and they're looking at him expectantly.

"What are you two doing here?" He'd come to the office seeking solitude, and now he's going to have to deal with _their_ attitudes about his oversight.

"You really thought we'd sit at home after you called us about House?" Cameron asks.

"No. I… uh… actually, I guess I'm glad you're here."

"He's worse? What's going on?" Cameron rises from her chair, evidently ready to head for House's room.

"His condition's deteriorating; we're transferring him to the unit, but he's okay for now. There… _was_ a problem, though…."

Neither Foreman nor Cameron speaks; they simply look at Chase, waiting for him to go on. He sighs and sits down. "He wasn't on pain medication for almost nineteen hours. Started to go into withdrawal, and no one knew. Dr. Wilson finally realized, and… he's pretty upset." Chase falls silent.

"How'd that happen?" Foreman asks him.

"I'm not sure. He was acutely ill when he came in last night; the main concern was getting him dialyzed, and I guess Cuddy's focus was the renal failure. Didn't occur to her to order anything to replace the Vicodin. And when she called me in today, I went over his chart and we discussed the meds, but…." Chase stops speaking, doesn't seem inclined to go on.

"You didn't think about it either," Foreman concludes. "And Wilson was more concerned with House, the friend than House, the patient, so it took withdrawal to make anyone take notice." Foreman chuckles softly.

Chase is incredulous. "He's gonna rip into me for this, make my life miserable! What are you laughing about?"

"House'll be pleased; the old bastard's gonna take it as a compliment." As Chase and Cameron stare at him in confusion, Foreman continues, "His twisted psychology worked! He's spent all these years harping on his damned leg for a reason; he figured eventually we'd tune 'im out, get on with our jobs, just see him as number one on the Worst Boss In the World hit parade, instead of some pathetic cripple in need of coddling. And it worked! Well… _mostly_ worked," Foreman says, glancing sidelong at Cameron, who glares back at him.

"So he's not gonna kill me?" Chase asks hopefully.

"Oh, yeah!" Foreman grins. "You're still gonna catch holy hell for it. But you can take comfort in knowing that _deep inside_, he's thanking you for forgetting. _Real_ deep inside." Foreman laughs at the look of dismay that's replaced the hope on Chase's face.

"Well, _I_ don't see anything funny about this." Cameron is indignant. "Whatever else you think of him, House is a human being who was made to suffer unnecessarily. And Chase _should_ feel awful. As doctors, we're charged with the responsibilities of causing no harm, and alleviating pain. Chase failed at both!"

Now Chase is annoyed. "Thank you, Dr. Cameron, for that Cliff Notes version of the Hippocratic Oath! And _you're_ causing pain right now; didn't you think I felt bad enough _before_ your little sermon? Just thought you'd twist the knife in a bit deeper? Wonder what Hippocrates would think of that!" Chase and Cameron try to stare each other down across the table.

"Okay, you two, enough. Chase, c'mon, tell us what's going on with House. Why the unit? Got the labs?"

"Chart's with Cuddy; she's overseeing the transfer. He's tachypneic and his sats are dropping. Renal function's about the same; he's putting out about 20cc an hour. BUN and creatinine were through the roof when he was admitted; been a slight decrease since. Got some immune assays pending; turns out he's been on prednisone for a couple of months, problem with his shoulder. But we already know the basics there; white count's depressed, immune system's definitely been compromised by the pred. He's also tachycardic—but he's febrile, running 102, 103, so I'm not concerned with that yet."

Foreman hasn't heard anything that would warrant ICU, so he repeats the question. "So why the unit?"

"Mostly for Wilson. As soon as House's respiratory rate started climbing, and his oxygen saturation dropped a couple points, Wilson wanted him on a vent. So I told him we'd put him on O2, and monitor his status in ICU. Wilson's taking this hard, and now, with the pain med mix-up…. Let's just say it's for Wilson's peace of mind."

Both Foreman and Cameron nod their understanding. "And the MRSA?" Cameron asks.

"Because of the kidney failure, we've had to withhold the vancomycin. He's covered; it's still in therapeutic range. They pulled new blood cultures on him last night when he came in with the fever; no results yet on those. Bottom line is, we're in a holding pattern. Not bad, not good. He's pretty sick, but right now there's not a hell of a lot we can do for him."

"I know one thing we can do for him," Cameron says. "We need to go see him. He needs to know that all his friends are there for him, supporting him."

Foreman and Chase roll their eyes at each other, and Foreman whispers, "You wanna get back in Wilson's good graces? Keep her outta there!"

Chase shakes his head at Cameron. "Wilson's superglued himself to House's side, so 'all his friends' _is_ already there. And you'd do well to stay out, at least for a while. Cuddy's with him too—and I have a feeling Wilson isn't done yelling about the oversight yet."

"You're a coward, then, letting Cuddy take the heat," Cameron says. "And it's not _the_ oversight; it's _your_ oversight. You should be right there with Cuddy."

"Oh, no!" Chase shakes his head vigorously. "You know how Wilson is about House's health; he's appointed himself personal guard dog. Makes all the big decisions, even controls the meds. And House lets him get away with it. And currently, House's guard dog is feeling guilty for falling asleep on the job, letting his friend suffer. He's gotta pin the blame on _someone_ to make himself feel better. Why should it be me when Dr. Cuddy's already right there in firing range?"

"Coward," Cameron mutters again.

"Yeah," Chase tells her, unperturbed. "But at least I'm a coward who'll live to tell about it. Can't say the same for Cuddy, once Wilson gets done with—" He's interrupted by the sound of his pager, and reaches into his pocket for it.

When he looks up at his colleagues, his eyes are wide. "It's House; let's go!"


	17. Chapter 17: INTENSIVE CARING

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: **INTENSIVE CARING

The three fellows come running into House's cubicle, and virtually screech to a stop. "What's happening?" Chase demands.

"Fever's shooting up—104.6 now," Cuddy tells him.

Chase almost laughs with relief; he'd been afraid that the page was somehow related to House's untreated pain, or to the withdrawal symptoms. Or worse—Wilson might've wanted to bring up the vent again. "So order an antipyretic," he says. "Acetaminophen, ibuprofen."

"Can't do that. He's scheduled for his first full dialysis session in a few minutes; that's _got _to take priority. And that'll remove the drugs from his system before they've even had a chance to start working."

"Yeah," Chase says thoughtfully. "Besides, acetaminophen's not good for his liver, and ibuprofen is murder on compromised kidneys. Okay; let's get him in an ice bath."

"_No_!" Wilson, who's been glowering at both Cuddy and Chase, speaks up for the first time. "I won't allow you to put him through that! There are other options, maybe not as fast but just as effective. And he has more than enough circulation problems in the right leg without—"

Chase meets Wilson's eyes. "It's the preferred treatment for fever above 105. Anyway, he's unconscious, so—"

"Am not," interrupts a weak, raspy voice from the bed, and they all turn towards House, who's eyeing his three fellows, standing in an anxious row before him. "You didn't tell me it was Buy One, Get Two Free Day," he says to Wilson.

"Sorry," Wilson responds. "Didn't even know those two were in the building." He scowls at Cameron and Foreman.

"It's okay." House closes his eyes. "Cuts out the middle man. And _you_ need to let the nice intensivist treat the intensive care patient. Just go back to being a helicopter…."

Everyone gathered around the bed shares a concerned look. "Helicopter?" Wilson asks tentatively.

"You know, that whole… hovering thing… you do so well." House's weak voice is growing fainter. "Chase is… good doctor…." He sighs, and returns to what Wilson hopes are pleasant dreams.

Now Wilson eyes Chase. "He doesn't recall what just happened downstairs. Obviously."

Chase looks down. "I know that. And… okay… his temp's not 105 yet. So let's put him on a convective airflow cooling blanket." He looks to Wilson for approval.

Wilson nods. "That'll work."

They wait until House's dialysis session is underway, then Wilson approaches the bed. "House; need to talk to you." No response. "Hey, you awake in there?"

House doesn't respond, and Wilson's starting to get worried. When he places a hand on House's arm and squeezes gently, House doesn't open his eyes or respond verbally, but he does turn his head towards Wilson. Wilson doesn't know how much'll get through, but he speaks to House as if it'll all be understood.

"We've gotta take care of your fever, House. Meds won't work 'cuz of the dialysis, so we're gonna put you on a cooling blanket, see if that helps. Might be a little uncomfortable; you just let me know if it is."

Wilson continues to speak to House as he's turned and lifted by Chase and Foreman to allow Cuddy and Cameron to slide the thin blue blanket beneath him, and then he's resettled comfortably. Throughout the procedure, House is generally nonresponsive. He does open his eyes once, looks around, spots Wilson smiling reassuringly, and goes back to sleep.

After an hour, Chase is pleased that House's fever has come down a degree and a half, and no longer poses a neurological danger. Wilson is pleased that, apparently, the blanket isn't adding to House's discomfort, and that—while he's still tachycardic—his heart rate has fallen to 116. Cuddy's relieved that the crisis has been averted, but she isn't surprised when Wilson indicates that he'd like to speak with her and Chase.

Leaving Cameron and Foreman with House, the other three step outside the cubicle. Wilson motions them further out into the hall, and Chase and Cuddy stand patiently before him, waiting for whatever it is he wants to tell them. Both understand that he's exhausted and worried, and both understand that they've made a big mistake; they're willing to let him have his say.

Wilson runs a hand over his eyes, rubs the back of his neck. When he begins to speak, they see the anger simmering in his eyes, but his voice is calm.

"What happened is inexcusable for any patient—but _House_? You know him, you know his medical history, you know how dependent he is on those pills."

"We _all_ know how dependent he is on the Vicodin," Chase says defensively.

Wilson knows exactly what Chase is getting at. "I'm not blameless. Believe me, I probably feel worse about it than either of you. But I'm not his treating physician right now; I'm his friend. And I'm _damned_ lucky he's allowing me to be his support system. Otherwise, he'd be trying to get through this alone."

Both Chase and Cuddy start to protest, and Wilson shakes his head. "Yeah, I know you'd try—but he wouldn't allow it. You know House; he'd make a conscious decision to shut everyone out. Chase, you know that when a critically ill patient has no support, there's rarely a good outcome. Frankly, I'm amazed, and grateful, that House has decided to let me in, help him through this. And _that _has to be my primary responsibility. I have to maintain the trust he's placed in me. If I try to be his doctor as well—"

"You're absolutely right," Cuddy interrupts. "You're doing the right thing. And you made a good point about how well we know House and his medical needs. Speaking for myself, though, I think that's why it happened. I'm _so_ familiar with his intimate relationship with those damned pills that I let it become just a part of who he is; I'd stopped thinking of it as an ongoing medical need. That's not a defense—believe me, I don't even _want_ to defend my part in this. But it _is_ a reason."

Wilson nods. "No, it's not a defense. But it's understandable. I appreciate your honesty." He and Cuddy smile at each other, both acknowledging that they'll now move past this, personally and professionally.

Chase, however, isn't ready to either explain or defend his own responsibility in what occurred. "It was a mistake. Mistakes happen," he says almost sullenly.

Wilson's eyes widen, and Cuddy says tersely, "That's not good enough, Dr. Chase."

Wilson puts a hand on Cuddy's arm. "Would you mind excusing us? I'd like to speak with Chase privately."

"Sure. I want to go check on House anyway." Cuddy reenters the unit, leaving the two men alone.

"Chase, you _do_ understand everything I've said, right?" Wilson is puzzled at Chase's attitude; he senses resentment from the younger doctor.

"Oh, I understand it all right; I understand that House is gonna make me feel like crap, and you're getting off scot-free!" Chase says. When Wilson, astonished at the outburst, just stares at him, Chase continues, "I don't get this. All through the narcotics investigation, we protected him, lied for him, had our lives disrupted for him. Now I'm trying to save _his_ life, and the one person who turned on him is lecturing _me _about trust!"

Wilson sighs and leans heavily against the wall. When he speaks, his voice is low, and strained. "I made the deal with Tritter because he verbally attacked Cuddy; he attacked _you_ physically. And I didn't know what either of you would do, how bad you might make things for him."

He looks at Chase almost beseechingly. "I couldn't allow him to go to prison over some stupid principle that made sense only to him. And he would've; I don't doubt that for a minute. He has a moral code that… that… defies interpretation. And I should know; I've spent years trying to understand it. But he'll stand by that code to the death. And that's what prison would have meant for him, Chase. Death. I was working as hard to save his life then as you are now. I made mistakes then that I'm still paying for now. And _House_ is paying for my mistakes. I take everything I did—and didn't do—very seriously. I'm asking you to take the same responsibility." Wilson leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes.

Chase studies him thoughtfully for a minute. "Okay, I'll take full responsibility for my oversight… if _you'll_ keep him from punching me out when he hears about it."

Wilson opens his eyes to find Chase grinning at him. He grins back. "You've got it. Don't forget, delirious or not, House called you a good doctor. That's… no small thing, coming from him. Now, let's go make sure he lives to give you grief for a few more years."

Chase offers his hand; Wilson shakes it firmly. Then they walk together back into the ICU.


	18. Chapter 18: CHANGES

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:** CHANGES

When Wilson and Chase return to the cubicle, Cameron and Foreman are getting ready to leave, and they invite Chase to join them for a late lunch.

"Go on, Chase," Cuddy urges him. "House's fever is still coming down, there's been no significant change in his labs. So get while the getting's good!"

Chase looks toward Wilson, who smiles and nods. "All right, then. Page me if anything changes?"

"Bet on it," Wilson says.

The fellows leave, and Wilson turns to Cuddy. "How's he doing? Been awake at all?"

"No, not since we put him on the cooling blanket. But his vitals are stable."

Wilson takes little comfort from that. The monitors tell him that House's heart rate and breathing are still too rapid, and even on oxygen his sats are only 91 percent. And it doesn't take a doctor to figure out that House doesn't look good at all.

Wilson moves his gaze from the monitors, and forces himself to look at House through a physician's eyes. _Patient in critical condition. Semi-comatose, with altered mental status when conscious. Mild to moderate respiratory distress. Urine output low. _He moves the sheet aside, exposing House's feet and legs. _Increased edema in the lower extremities. _He replaces the sheet and begins to study House's face—and Wilson loses his objectivity.

House's hair is damp with perspiration. His closed eyes are sunken into his swollen face; his pale lips are deeply cracked and dry. Wilson closes his own eyes for a moment, fighting off the sudden feeling of helplessness. He takes a washcloth and bathes House's face, moves the damp hair from his forehead. While he's moistening House's parched lips with a glycerin swab, House opens his eyes. Wilson smiles at him. "Hey."

House tries to say something, but no sound comes out. He tries again. "So thirsty…." There's no volume behind the words, but Wilson understands what he wants, and reaches for the cup of ice chips. He spoons them patiently, one at a time, into House's mouth, until House whispers, "That's good… thanks."

Across the room, Cuddy watches the two men interact, and she smiles sadly. _Wilson's wrong; he never did stop protecting House. Everything he did was done to try and keep House safe. Even now, he's so focused on House's comfort that nothing else matters to him. Certainly not his own well-being. If he doesn't get some rest soon, though, he'll collapse. And yeah, if Wilson's not here, House won't allow the rest of us in. The bond those two have… House won't show any weakness to anyone else, but he willingly gives it to Wilson. And the amazing thing is, he accepts that Wilson'll keep him safe._

House has drifted off again, and Wilson motions Cuddy to the bedside. "Pain's coming back. The dialysis…."

"Already thought of that," Cuddy smiles. "And that's one problem I think I've solved. Any minute now, I'm expecting—"

As if on cue, a pharmacy tech comes through the door pushing an IV pole. Cuddy thanks him and rolls it to the bedside. Wilson looks at the contents of the pump and, slightly puzzled, looks to Cuddy.

"Yeah," Cuddy says. "I remember that PCA stands for _patient_ controlled analgesia. And I know that our patient is currently in no shape to control anything. Lucky for him, then, that he's got a caring, concerned friend around to do it for him."

When Wilson looks at Cuddy, gratitude is shining from his eyes. "This is great! Thanks, Cuddy; what a good idea. During the times he's being dialyzed, I can keep dosing him; he won't have to suffer."

_And neither will you, watching him. _"I figured, he does have some lucid times too, and maybe it'll also help him feel more in control to know that it's there. Especially after what we put him through downstairs." Cuddy's still feeling great regret over House's inadvertent detox.

"I don't think he's recalled that yet. And I don't think we should remind him of it anytime soon," Wilson says.

"Remind me… of what?" House asks faintly, and opens his eyes. He sees the new IV pole at his bedside, and, thankfully, doesn't wait for an answer to his first question before asking a second one. "What's that?"

"Dilaudid, at your beck and call," Wilson tells him as he places the control gently into House's left hand, helps him curl his fingers around it.

"Must be… sicker than I thought… to rate… the good stuff, huh?"

Wilson intentionally ignores the question. "Hey, beats a coloring book, doesn't it?"

House tries to smile. "Yeah… even with… the big box… of crayons…." He weakly, but successfully, depresses the button on the control, and then allows his heavy eyes to close, and he's out again.

Cuddy's pager goes off, and she glances at the text screen and frowns. "It's the lab, stat page. Wonder what's up?" She steps just outside the room where there's a phone on the wall.

Wilson is looking disconsolately at the monitors when he hears Cuddy raise her voice.

"That's impossible! No, check it again; that just can't be right." There's a pause while she listens, then says, "There's _got_ to be something. Find it." She slams the phone into its cradle, and Wilson looks at her questioningly. She motions for him to join her outside the room.

"What's the matter?" he asks quietly once he reaches her.

Cuddy looks up at the ceiling, presses her fingers to her temples, takes several deep breaths. When she finally looks at Wilson, he reads stunned disbelief in her eyes. In a voice barely above a whisper, she recites what she's just been told, "At hour sixty-nine, the cultures on the specimen from the scalpel began to exhibit resistance to vancomycin. So they checked the blood cultures drawn last night from House. At hour twenty, they show _no_ susceptibility to vancomycin, nor to any other antibiotic we use to treat MRSA."

"Cuddy, that's impossible!" Wilson unconsciously echoes Cuddy's own first words on hearing the alarming news. "You're telling me he has VRSA; there've been maybe five cases in New Jersey since the first one was diagnosed a decade ago."

"And those five cases are proof that it's _not_ impossible," Cuddy points out grimly. "Lab's still hopeful that it might be VISA—vancomycin _intermediate_ staph aureus—instead of VRSA—vancomycin resistant. So we'll keep his vanc in therapeutic range until we know for certain."

"Not sure that's a good idea. Be a different story if the vancomycin weren't affecting his renal function, but with his cultures already showing resistance…." Wilson's already wracking his brain, trying to figure out the best way to handle this stunning development.

"Hey," Cuddy says gently. "Helicopter, remember? Let Chase and me get this figured out, okay?"

Wilson smiles ruefully. "Can't just forget that I'm a doctor. A doctor whose best friend… is dying. Dying of a disease that has no protocol for treatment. Don't ask me not to try to help in the search for something that'll work. _Please_."

Cuddy looks deep into the anxious, earnest eyes of the only person on the planet House really connects with, and she's torn. _House needs him so badly. But we're gonna need all the help we can get—and then some. _"Okay, here's the deal, then. Gonna send for your laptop so you can research this, and still be here for him. But I'm _also_ going to get that cot up here, so you can rest. And you _will_ rest. At least four hours out of every twenty-four—starting within the hour. Clear?" She furrows her brow and looks at him sternly.

"Yeah…. And, uh, thanks. Again."

Cuddy dismisses his gratitude with a wave of her hand. "Thank _you_. It's because of you, ya know, that House actually has a decent shot at beating this. Now, I need to go page Chase, take care of the laptop. _And_ that cot. Which I expect to see you using when I come back."

"I will, promise." But Wilson's voice is distracted, and Cuddy sees that he's actually having a good moment, watching contentedly as House sleeps peacefully, free from discomfort.

Knowing that the good moments will be few and far between in the coming days, she leaves him to it.


	19. Chapter 19: WHISPERING

**CHAPTER NINETEEN: **WHISPERING

After Cuddy leaves, Wilson continues to watch House sleep. "You know what, House?" he begins, in a barely audible whisper, "You'd really appreciate the irony of all this. We've got a patient with probable VRSA, and we've got a world-renowned infectious disease specialist, and both of 'em are in this hospital. Too bad they're one and the same."

Wilson lowers his head into his hands, rubs at his gritty eyes. "What should we do? What's the best way to treat this? C'mon, help me out here, House. Soon as they get me my laptop, gonna do some serious research, try to get a game plan in place. But no one I consult with will be Dr. Greg House. You're the best. The _best._ Ever told you that before? I should've. I've said it to desperate families, other doctors, your team when they come to me griping about you. Even said it to Cuddy. Don't think I've ever said it to _you_, though. So I'll tell you now. And then, when you can hear me, understand me, I'll tell you again. You'll respond with some smart-ass remark, ask me why I feel the need to put words to something so blatantly evident. And I'll roll my eyes and call you an egotistical jerk. Which you are."

A nurse arrives to disconnect House from the dialysis machine; Wilson moves away from the bedside until she's completed her work. As soon as the nurse is gone, he resumes his post, and his one-sided conversation with House.

"You _earned_ that ego, though, because you're also brilliant. Maybe that's why you manage to come up with so many inventive ways to be self-destructive, huh? Another thing I've never told you; you scare me. Being your friend is like… a 24/7 child-proofing job. But I wouldn't trade places with anyone. Not ever. You need to know _that_ too. So you've gotta stick around; wouldn't want me to lose that job, would you?"

Wilson's interrupted again as the cot and his laptop arrive simultaneously. The flurry of activity in the room doesn't disturb House at all, not even when a rolling table is inadvertently toppled and hits the floor with a loud bang. Wilson realizes then that House isn't simply sleeping; he's unconscious.

As soon as they're alone again, Wilson does a quick neuro check. House's pupils are sluggish. His response to pain is delayed—but he does respond appropriately, Wilson notes with relief.

"That's okay; you take your vacation, House. Hope you're somewhere nice, gorging yourself on junk food and overheating the TV with bad porn. But you come back real soon, and help us out. It's a really tricky puzzle; you'll enjoy it. So hurry up—we need you…. _I_ need you."

Wilson, eyes moist and burning, turns reluctantly away from the bedside and opens his laptop.

Cuddy and Chase return to House's room forty minutes later. As they don gowns and gloves outside the cubicle, Cuddy spots Wilson. He's stretched out on the cot as promised, but he's sitting up, back supported against the wall—and he's typing furiously on his laptop.

"This is _not_ what I had in mind when I ordered you to get some rest," she scolds as she and Chase enter.

"Just sending out some emails. I want to get in contact with a few infectious disease specialists throughout the country, try to find out what we're dealing with. Almost finished."

Cuddy isn't mollified—Wilson's been awake for a day and a half, and he's exhausted. She knows that if he doesn't sleep soon, she'll be adding another patient to her roster. She goes to him and sits on the edge of the cot. Cuddy reaches over and closes the laptop. "You _are_ finished for now," she says, pretending that he isn't scowling at her. "House's dialysis session is over, he's resting comfortably, and Chase and I are here. You're going to take advantage of the lull in the storm to lie down and close your eyes. Which, by the way, is the generally accepted definition of_ resting_." Cuddy meets Wilson's tired eyes with her own and sends a nonverbal message that she means it, that there will be consequences if he defies her.

Wilson, resigned, sighs and sets the laptop on the small table beside his cot. "Okay, but I'm not sleeping. Just going to close my eyes for half an hour." He lowers his body onto the cot as Cuddy pulls a light blanket over him. "Won't be asleep—just resting. Thirty minutes," he repeats, closing his eyes.

Cuddy waits, gazing fondly down on Wilson as his breathing slows and evens out into the regular pattern of sleep. "The two of you are such children," she whispers quietly. "Stubborn little boys. And the devotion… takes my breath away. You'd kill yourself to save him. I'm not going to let that happen. House'll kill _me_ if I let anything happen to you. Chase calls you his guard dog; you can just consider me your loving master. _Someone's_ gotta look out for you until House gets back." She gently adjusts his blanket before going to join Chase at House's bedside.

Chase is just completing his assessment; House hasn't stirred at all. "Last dialysis removed over three liters of fluid, yet edema's still increasing," Chase says in a whisper. "His urine output's dropped marginally. Got a feeling his next labs are gonna show worsening kidney function."

"Wilson thinks we should stop the vanc," Cuddy responds.

"I agree with him. Chances are the staph's completely resistant to it anyway. Lab's going to let us know if it shows any susceptibility at all to linezolid. Pharmacy's mixing his first dose of that now. For House, it'd be the drug of choice—risk of nephrotoxicity is virtually nonexistent, so once the vanc clears his system we should begin to see improvement in renal function. And if the linezolid gives him even partial coverage of the infection, that'll buy us some time."

"And if it doesn't?"

Chase glances over at the sleeping Wilson, and lowers his voice even further. "If it doesn't," he tells Cuddy frankly, "we're screwed."


	20. Chapter 20: DETERIORATING

**CHAPTER TWENTY: **DETERIORATING

Heart monitor screeching. A weak, broken, male voice, "Where's Wilson?"—and then the soothing murmur of a female voice; Wilson can't make out the words. The rustle of sheets, and then the female voice again, louder, more forceful: "House, _no_! You can't get up!"

Wilson sits up with a start, and sees Cuddy trying to keep House in bed. Wilson's across the room in three steps, hands gripped on House's upper arms, forcing him back against the pillows. "It's okay; relax. I'm here."

House looks at him angrily. "Where's Wilson?" he challenges.

Wilson and Cuddy exchange worried glances. "I'm right here, House. Look at me; _I'm right here_."

House stops struggling and looks at him. "Obviously. You made _that_ clear when you assaulted me." House looks pointedly at the hands still pinning his arms to the bed. "Now if you'll let go of me, and tell me where Wilson is, I'm willing to forget about pressing charges."

Wilson slowly releases House's arms and sits on the side of the bed. "I'm Wilson," he assures House in a slow, hushed voice. "I'm _Wilson_. Jimmy. Your friend. Okay?"

The struggle's stolen the rest of House's strength. Breathing rapidly, he gasps out, "No. Wilson left. He has… to come back now…." House pauses; his chest is heaving with the effort of speech.

"No, House, I didn't leave; I won't leave. I was just lying down. Over there; see?" He points to the cot. "Any time you wake up and don't see me, you look over there; I'll never go further than that cot without letting you know." Wilson smiles reassuringly.

"Nice… of you to… stay here… but I'd be… grateful if you'd… find Wilson… instead."

Wilson indicates to Cuddy to increase the flow of oxygen. When she mouths _sedative?_ he shakes his head, then returns his gaze to House's face.

"Listen to me, House. It's okay. You're a little foggy at the moment; your kidneys are trying to shut down on you. We're taking care of it, but right now all those toxins are messing with your brain. You following me?"

House's head moves feebly, up and down, against the pillows. He closes his eyes in resignation. "Will you at least… call Wilson… for me? If… I'm sick… he'll wanna know… and he might come… always… used to come… when I needed him… before…."

Cuddy and Wilson exchange heartsick looks, and Wilson has to swallow hard several times before he can speak again.

"I want you to open your eyes, look at me. Can you do that for me? Need to talk to you."

House opens his eyes slowly. "Gettin' tired… wanna… see him 'fore I… sleep. So talk… fast. Then find 'im."

This is the first time Wilson's ever heard a hoarse whisper sound like an imperious command, and he smiles—House is still in there.

"You're right. We had a few problems, you and I. We never stopped speaking, but we stopped… communicating. For a long time. But I never went away, House. And I never would. Should've told you that before. I wanted to; I _tried_ to. You weren't ready to listen. So listen to me now. I'm _here_. I'm _staying_. That's a promise, my friend. Take it to the bank."

House looks hard at him, and marshals all his strength. "Where. Is. Wilson." Not a question—a demand.

Wilson's shoulders slump; he's out of words. So he simply looks at House. He's so devastated that he forgets to shield the worry and concern in his eyes. He's confused when House begins to smile.

The smile quickly becomes a grin, and then a wide smirk as House turns his head toward Cuddy. He's notably calmer now, and his voice is stronger, although he still struggles for air between words. "Told you he'd come," House says to her. "_Told_ ya. There he… goes, melting his eyes, drippin'… compassion all over the place, making… a mess. Didn't I tell you… he'd do that?"

Cuddy smiles. "You certainly did, House," she confirms.

House turns back to Wilson. "Where you… been? Been sick; thought for sure… you'd be… hanging around, driving me… crazy."

"That I have, House. Been here all along. Hiding in plain sight."

But House doesn't hear the last few words; he's gone to sleep, the remnants of his grin still quirking the corner of his mouth. And this time, they know he's just sleeping; as Wilson and Cuddy maneuver him onto his left side and prop his injured hand on a pillow, he grumbles at them. It's difficult to make out the words, but they both catch "leave me the hell alone," and then both of them are grinning too.

The smiles are fleeting; Cuddy has the latest labs, and she hands them to Wilson. "Didn't need these to tell me his renal function's deteriorated," he says.

"I know. That was frightening; his mentation's been affected. But Chase agrees with you about the vancomycin; we're discontinuing it. Started him on linezolid; he had his first dose an hour ago. And his vanc level's subtherapeutic now, so we should begin to see improvement in renal function in twenty-four, forty-eight hours."

"Good. An _hour_ ago? How long did I sleep?"

"Not long enough," Cuddy says pointedly. "But almost three hours. Sorry about the… uh… wake-up call."

"Three hours! Cuddy, I've got people to contact, research to do. House is running out of time; we don't even know yet if there'll be any response to the linezolid. Or whether we should be combining it with an aminoglycocide. There's so much we don't know," Wilson looks over at House. "And time is our enemy, unless we can find a way to buy him more of it."

"I'm not apologizing. You'll be much more helpful to him—_and_ to us—now that you've had some sleep. Oh, and I had them hold your dinner at the nurse's station; I'll get 'em to warm it up and bring it in. And you'll eat it."

Wilson recognizes the no-nonsense, no-argument tone in Cuddy's voice, and he's oddly grateful for it. "Yes ma'am. Every bite."

Cuddy smiles with satisfaction. "Now _that's_ what I like—well-behaved, obedient doctors who show the proper respect for authority," she says, stripping off her isolation gown as she walks to the door. She stops and cocks her head at Wilson. "Know where I can find any?"

Wilson acknowledges the question with a quick smile, then gazes at House and grows serious. "Let's pray you don't have to go looking."

On an impulse, Cuddy goes to Wilson and wraps him in a hug. Because she's already removed her gown, she's breaking isolation, and now she'll have to shower. _But he needs this hug—and so do I. _ "Amen to that!" she whispers in his ear.


	21. Chapter 21: WHAT HE NEEDS TO KNOW

**A/N: **There seems to be a bit of confusion about yesterday's chapter. No--House was _not_ playing with Wilson, at all. The scene where he didn't recognize Wilson was taken from a real-life experience I had early in my nursing career. A 43 year old man in acute renal failure, and his mother, had a variation of House's conversation with Wilson. The mom was, of course, heartbroken. It wasn't until she began to cry that the son 'recognized' her as his mother. House didn't know, until Wilson gave him that compassionate, worried "look" that Wilson is so good at, that the 'stranger' was, indeed, 'his' Wilson. So sorry for any confusion! **mjf**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: **WHAT HE NEEDS TO KNOW

Wilson awakens when the night nurse comes in to hang the 2:00am dose of linezolid; shortly before 1:00am, his eyes had closed despite his best efforts. He looks toward House's bed and sees that he's awake too. As the nurse silently finishes her duties and leaves, Wilson moves to the bedside. House's eyes are focused and alert; he's taking in his surroundings, and appears oriented. "Been awake long?" Wilson asks him.

House shakes his head. "Nurse… woke me. Hey… how'd I rate a… TV in here?" House is still breathless, still breathing far too rapidly. Wilson begins to unobtrusively count his respirations.

"You're in an isolation cubicle—guess the TV's one of the perks. You having trouble breathing?"

"No… why you… wearing a… gown?"

Wilson realizes suddenly that House doesn't know yet about the suspected VRSA; initially the isolation room had been chosen only to provide him privacy. Instinct is telling Wilson not to say anything about the new diagnosis, so he regretfully attempts to take advantage of House's altered mental status. "Contact isolation requires a gown, doesn't it?" he says casually. "Wanna check out the TV? I think there's cable."

House regards him appraisingly. "What's… going on, Wilson? We discon… tinued… contact iso for… bloodborne… MRSA six months… ago… latest studies show… unnec… essary." House is practically panting with the effort of speech, and when he stops speaking he gulps air audibly.

Wilson frowns at House and reaches for a stethoscope. "I'll explain in a minute," he says, placing the stethoscope in his ears and helping House lean forward so he can listen to his lungs. _What'll I tell him? Tell him Cuddy just changed the protocol? It's only a precaution? No, damn it! He _chose_ to trust me._

Wilson finishes the respiratory assessment and manages to keep the alarm he's feeling off his face as he increases the O2 to six liters and picks up the bedside phone. He's very much aware that House is watching him intently. "I need a nonrebreather mask in Unit 5 stat. Patient's got pulmonary edema, and he's in acute distress." He recradles the phone, then sits on the edge of the bed and meets House's eyes.

"The infection's started to show resistance to vancomycin, House."

House's eyes widen briefly, and Wilson watches his left hand curl into a fist. "_Damn_," House whispers vehemently. He takes several more rapid, shallow breaths, gulping air through his mouth.

Wilson keeps his voice calm and firm. "Breathe slowly, through your nose. Your sats just fell to 87 percent. The nonrebreather'll be here in a minute; then you can breathe through your mouth if you need to." Wilson presses the button to raise the head of the bed, hoping that'll help.

"Not… worried about… breathe…ing. Wanna know—"

"That's _enough_, House," Wilson cuts in sharply. "Concentrate on controlling your breathing, and I'll give you a full report."

The respiratory tech appears in the doorway with the mask; Wilson goes to the door and takes it from him. He quickly switches out the nasal cannula for the nonrebreather, then waits, watching House as he tries to comply with his instructions, watching the numbers move on the monitors. "That's good; slow, deep breaths. Slow it down; you're doing better. Sat's up to 90 percent now."

When the pulse oximeter reading goes to 91 percent, Wilson nods and sits down again. "Okay. You keep breathing, I'll keep talking. You get agitated, or feel like you just have to throw in your two cents, we'll postpone this. Understood?"

House nods obediently; he's not about to tell Wilson that breathing's the only job he can handle at the moment.

But Wilson knows. _Gotta get House settled down, get in a page to Chase. Need to get him on a vent before he crashes. _"We have you on linezolid, 600mg IV every twelve hours. You've had two doses, and you're tolerating it fine. We've d/c'd the vanc, of course, and we don't know yet if the staph will be susceptible to the linezolid. Right now, though, you're holding your own with the infection."

House nods, and gestures to his chest and to the catheter bag.

"That's more of an immediate concern," Wilson tells him. "Fluid overload is causing pulmonary edema. And… you're beginning to show arrhythmias on the cardiac monitor. Urine output's fallen a little. But we're hopeful that now that you're off the vancomycin, all those things will begin to improve in the next forty-eight hours, maybe sooner."

Wilson wonders if he should mention the probability of a ventilator. But he can't bring himself to do it. He justifies his decision by telling himself that the news would agitate House, who must be kept as calm as possible—he's already in respiratory distress. And now, House is attempting to speak again.

"Told… Chase…." Whatever House is trying to say is lost as House goes into paroxysms of coughing. The head of the bed is already as high as it will go, so Wilson puts a hand behind House's back and leans him forward, supporting House's chest across his own arm. He yanks off the mask, and grabs for an emesis basin to catch the frothy white sputum that's a hallmark of pulmonary edema.

When the coughing finally ends, Wilson replaces the mask and lowers House back to the pillows. House's face is white; his lips are pale gray. But he's still trying to talk. Wilson shakes his head, puts a finger to his own lips. "We'll talk later. Try to rest now; I'm not going anywhere. Later."

House's eyes flare briefly with frustration, and Wilson thinks that he might argue. But then House shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and finally closes his eyes.

Wilson dampens a washcloth and cleans House's face and mouth. Then he gets another cool cloth and gently runs it across House's forehead and eyes, presses it to his temples. He repeats these motions again and again, all the while coaxing House to relax, let go, get some sleep. After just a few minutes, House's heart and respiratory rates slow a bit, and his respiratory effort is less shallow; he's back to sleep.

Wilson staggers over to the cot and opens his laptop; the latest labs should be available.

The first thing Wilson sees is that the linezolid is still showing activity in the cultures, and he sighs with relief. The staph isn't indicating as much susceptibility to the antibiotic as he'd hoped—but it's still enough to hold the infection at bay, give them time to come up with something more effective.

There's been no change in renal function, but there _has_ been one change; House's liver enzymes are higher now. _Still no cause for alarm_, Wilson tells himself. _Kidneys aren't getting better, but they aren't worse, either. And we'll just have to monitor liver function. Gonna take a couple days for the vanc to clear his system. He's okay. We're okay. Just in a holding pattern, that's all. He'll be fine._

Wilson closes his laptop and walks quietly to the bedside. "You can do this, House," he whispers. "You're strong; you're stubborn. You don't like to lose; remember that. You _win_; that's who you are. _That's_ what makes you special—not the leg, not the drugs. Not the miserable attitude. You don't give up. And people _live_ because of that. People live because _you_ won't just… give the hell up. Someone said once that the distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success. That makes you a genius by anyone's definition. But you're _also_ insane, ya know; you push that distance beyond all reason. You _don't_ admit failure, not as long as the patient's still alive."

Wilson blinks, then brushes impatiently at the sudden moisture that's blurring his vision. "_You're_ still alive, House. And what you've gotta do is stay alive. That's all; we'll do the rest this time. Give _us_ a chance to solve the puzzle. Hey—you're all about the teaching, right? You've taught us—now give us a chance to prove it. And give _me_ a chance to… give me a chance to…. Just gimme a chance, okay?"

House moves restlessly; his heart rate's climbing, and he moans as he reaches for his right leg. Wilson quickly pushes the button on the PCA, and waits until House's heart rate has returned to baseline, until the furrow between his eyes is smooth again. Then he takes a moment to do some passive range-of-motion exercises on the leg—House can't tolerate not being able to move it; makes him cranky. So Wilson'll do it for him. He continues speaking softly as he works.

"You die on me now, I swear I'll make you buy your own lunch from here on in. And I'll… I'll file _all _your canes in half." Wilson's voice cracks. "_Then_ what'll you do, you limping twerp?" That pesky dampness on Wilson's face is really interfering with his vision now. Before he turns away from the bed, he whispers one more word. "_Live_."


	22. Chapter 22: THINGS UNSAID

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: **THINGS UNSAID

House awakens again just before dawn—and he wants to talk. So does Wilson, because it's time. He doesn't know how much longer House will be coherent, or even alert. And there are things House needs to know, things Wilson has to say.

Wilson feeds him a few ice chips. House is having a difficult time swallowing, but his eyes tell Wilson he's grateful for the small comfort. Then Wilson rolls the patient table across the bed, places a pillow on it, and aids House in leaning forward onto the pillow. This new position eases House's breathing marginally, and House is grateful for that, too.

Wilson positions his chair so that he and House can see each other's faces, and waits for House to look at him. "Gotta talk, House."

House closes his eyes. "Is this gonna be… one of those… sickbed ver… sions of _Let's… Get A Few… Things Straight_?... 'Cuz I… don't… like that… game…."

"I… yeah, but—" _House, you miserable bastard. Always could see right through me—even with your eyes closed. No one else can do that. You've gotta stick around… no one else can do that…._

House tries to smile, and the effort causes his cracked, swollen lips to bleed. Wilson removes the O2 mask and tenderly wipes away the blood, moistens House's lips with a glycerin swab. House begins speaking even before Wilson gets the mask back in place. "Or is this… the… deathbed version?" He looks steadily at Wilson.

"_No!_" Wilson almost shouts. But House's gaze hasn't wavered, and finally Wilson meets his eyes, whispers, "Could be…."

House's eyes thank him for his honesty. House wants to laugh, but he knows that'll start the coughing again, so he settles for the ghost of a smirk. "Ahh, Jimmy… leave it to… you… get in one… last lec… ture. Tryin' to… insure my… entrance… pearly gates…."

Wilson's confused. "No… not a lecture. An apology, House. An overdue apology."

"But I… _did_…. I apol… ogized to… you and… don't tell… anyone but… I… might've… meant it…." House stops to gulp air. His O2 sats are falling, and Wilson sees that his nailbeds are dusky now.

"No, House, an apology from _me_. To you." House is trying to speak again; Wilson smiles at him, and shakes his head. "Hey, remember the part where I talk, and you pretend to listen? Well, this is the _musing out loud_ part, so—"

House smiles again. "So I… don't… need to… be here," he whispers.

"You do. Yeah, you do." Wilson grabs for the emesis basin as House begins to cough, wordlessly helps him through the spasm, keeping a warm hand tight against his back as House trembles with the effort of breathing.

When House is settled again, Wilson realizes that he needs to say the most important thing now. "That night. The night I… walked out on you. Christmas Eve. House, I walked out—but I never left. _I never left_."

House closes his eyes, slowly reopens them. "Moron… think I didn't… _know_ that… was trashed… where… ya think… got strength… to pull it… together…." _You were there… always there. You saved my life._

Wilson feels as if he's received a benediction. "I'm glad you knew. I'm glad." The coughing begins again. Wilson reaches for the suction catheter and clears House's mouth of the stuff that's drowning him slowly. But House is still coughing, still attempting to speak, and more of the sticky froth keeps coming. Finally, Wilson shakes his head and says sternly, "That's the end of the first round of _Let's Get A Few Things Straight. _We'll do the second round in a while, okay? And I'll let _you_ start off round two. But you need to sleep now."

"…not… fair… my turn… rip-off… gotta tell you… I… Chase…."

Wilson smiles affectionately. "Then you'll just have to stick around. Don't wanna deprive yourself of the chance to enlighten us about everything we're doing wrong, do you? And I wouldn't want to miss it; no one's called me an idiot yet this week. So take a nap; get back to me on it, okay? Be right here when you wake up. I'll even put on my listening ears, how's that?"

Just before House closes his eyes, he gazes into Wilson with an expression so sad, so regretful, that it fills Wilson with an inexplicable feeling of dread. It's clear that House had intended to say something vitally important to Wilson, and for a moment, Wilson wishes he'd allowed House to speak. _No; he's got to rest now. There'll be time enough for it later; there _will_ be._

Exhausted, Wilson lowers himself into the chair and watches House breathe—_try_ to breathe. _Where the hell is Chase? Paged him over an hour ago. I should put in a call to Cuddy too._

Wilson looks at House, slumped over the patient table, shoulders heaving. His mouth is open under the mask, and his lips are the same ashen color as his skin. Wilson reaches gently for his hand, presses down on a nailbed, and counts the five seconds it takes for the nail to go from white to the faintest shade of pink. Then he stands up, stretches wearily, and goes to the phone; Cuddy and Chase need to get their asses out of bed. They need to be here. They _need_ to help his friend.

He makes the calls and wanders to the cot. _They'll be here soon. Just close my eyes until they get here. Long night; gonna be a long day. Need to be able to think._

Wilson lies down, propping his back against the wall. _He knew I hadn't left him, knew he wasn't alone. Said that gave him the strength to get through it. And now I'll give him that strength again. And he'll pull through again._

"I'm here for you, House," he whispers. "Whatever it takes; I'm here. Always was; always will be. Hold on to that. Just… hold on." And finally, Wilson sleeps too.


	23. Chapter 23: LAST WISHES

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: **LAST WISHES

Wilson awakens because of a noise he's _not_ hearing. He's been dozing lightly, anticipating the arrival of Cuddy and Chase. And—as horrible as the sound of House's respirations have been—the rapid, rhythmic panting that Wilson's been aware of, even in his own semi-conscious state, has reassured him that House _is_ breathing.

But now, that awful rhythm is off; the sounds are being punctuated by long seconds of silence. Wilson, instantly awake, sits up and sees Chase and Cuddy in the corner of the room, speaking in low voices—he can't make out what they're saying, but Cuddy appears to be crying. Wilson can't worry about Cuddy now, though; he needs to find out what's going on with House. He rises and starts to the bedside.

"Dr. Wilson," Chase calls to him softly, but Wilson ignores him; he's seen that during the moments of silence, House's chest isn't moving. Wilson reaches for the emergency equipment.

"What the _hell's_ the matter with you two?" Wilson shouts. "He's having periods of apnea! Why are you just standing there?" He's just grabbed the ambu bag when Chase's hand on his arm stops him.

"No," Chase tells him; Wilson, uncomprehending, stares at him. "No," Chase repeats. "Leave him alone."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Wilson tries to yank his arm back, but Chase holds it firmly.

"The Advance Directive; you can't do that," Chase says, indicating the ambu clutched in Wilson's hand. "Come on, Dr. Wilson; you know that." Chase's voice is gentle, but his grip on Wilson's arm remains strong. Then he sees the look on Wilson's face; it's equal parts panic and puzzlement. "He didn't tell you; he _said_ he'd talk to you," Chase whispers.

Wilson's mouth goes dry as he remembers House's strained voice. …_told Chase…._ And he sees that odd combination of sadness and regret that House had had, just before he'd given in to sleep. "No. He didn't tell me anything. And he would've. Now let go of me. We've got a patient in acute respiratory distress. If you're not going to help him, I will."

Chase looks helplessly at Cuddy, who moves to stand next to Wilson. "I… didn't know anything about this either. But apparently when you and I were speaking, just after you arrived in the exam room, House was talking to Chase. He told Chase that he didn't expect things to get… bad. But he _also_ said that in the event of multiple organ failure he… didn't want any intervention."

"That's not in his chart!" Wilson looks toward House; he's not apneic right now, but his O2 sats are at 86 percent. Wilson hands the ambu bag to Chase, who releases his arm. Wilson glares at him defiantly and increases the oxygen flow to 30 liters.

Chase doesn't comment about the oxygen. "He asked me not to make it part of his chart. He said he'd tell you himself."

"He didn't actually sign the Advance Directive," Cuddy says. "But now we know what his wishes are; we have to respect them."

Wilson resolutely pushes House's whispered words, that last expression on his face, out of his mind. "All we have is Chase's word on that. House would've told you; he'd have told _me_, if that's what he really wanted!"

Chase looks as if Wilson has just slapped him. "And you think I'm lying to you?" he asks Wilson quietly.

"You've turned on House before, and yesterday you were pretty vocal in your resentment about everything that's happened this past year; how do I know this isn't part of some… _agenda_ you have?"

This incredible question hangs in the air, as Chase and Cuddy stare at Wilson, their expressions moving slowly from shock to concern.

Wilson looks from one to the other, and realizes what he's just asserted. "I'm… sorry, Chase; I don't know where that came from. But you've got to understand—even if House _did_ tell you he wanted no intervention, he changed his mind. He must've! There's _no way_ he'd keep something like that from me." _Yeah, like he told me about the brain cancer fiasco. Like I told him about the antidepressants. Like he let me know right away about the shoulder… and the prednisone. If we'd been any more closed off from each other these last few months, the guy could've moved to Maine and I wouldn't have known about it 'til I got a change of address card—_if_ I got a change of address card._

"And what would you have said if he _had_ told you?" Cuddy asks.

"I… don't know," Wilson admits. "But I _do_ know that right now, he needs to be put on a vent. We can straighten the rest out later, when he's better, stronger. When he can think for himself."

Chase's eyes widen. "Have you heard _anything_ I said? House is going into multi-system organ failure. He knew it might happen, and he discussed it with me when he _could_ think for himself. He told me what he wanted done. And what he _didn't_."

Wilson ignores Chase. House is having another apneic spell, and Wilson holds his own breath until House gasps and resumes breathing. Wilson turns to Cuddy. "Authorize the ventilator. Now."

"I… can't do that." Cuddy's eyes beg for Wilson's understanding.

"Why not? You're his proxy; what's stopping you?"

"_He_ is. I know what his wishes are; I can't just… ignore that."

Wilson narrows his eyes, looks hard at Cuddy. "Your history says you can. You didn't have a problem ignoring what he wanted after the infarction. What's changed?"

Cuddy's anger flares. "_Everything's_ changed! That decision was made to save his life. Now you're asking me to prolong his death. And even if he did manage to recover, would I be doing him any favors? Going against his wishes last time cost him Stacy. He pushed her away, and he's been pushing everyone else away ever since. If I overrode what he wants this time—and _if_ he lived—you think he'd be _happy_ about it? Grateful to me? No; he'd have a long, miserable recovery, all alone, and eventually he'd come back here even more bitter and distrustful than he is now."

"He _wouldn't_ be all alone! I'm not Stacy; I won't _let_ him push me away. Yeah, we've had our problems, big problems. But—"

"_Stop it_!" Chase interrupts. "We shouldn't even be having this discussion." Chase lowers his voice. "House could go on like this for hours—days. I understand how difficult this is for you to watch, Dr. Wilson. And I think you'd be… well-advised… to think about leaving, at least for a little while. Give yourself a chance to… come to terms with his decision. His death."

Wilson stares at Chase as if he's lost his mind. "I'm not leaving this room. I made him a promise; I told him I'd see him through this, and that's what I'm going to do. Because he _will_ get through this."

Chase shakes his head sadly. "I'm sorry; I can't be a party to this. I won't." He turns to Cuddy. "I'll be in the Diagnostics office. Call if you need me." He looks at Wilson with a mixture of frustration and pity, then quietly leaves the room.


	24. Chapter 24: BREATHING ROOM

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: **BREATHING ROOM

When Foreman enters House's cubicle, Wilson and Cuddy see him, but pay no attention; they're deep into a heated discussion. Foreman stands quietly at the door—he knows that no one else has any place in the decisions these two are trying to make.

Foreman had been in the Diagnostics office when Chase, clearly disturbed, had come in. Chase had told him about House's worsening condition, the respiratory distress, Wilson's demand for a ventilator. And then he'd revealed the details of his confidential conversation with House. So Foreman had taken a few minutes to bring himself up to date on House's condition. Then he'd examined his own feelings about what was transpiring, and he'd discovered that he understood both sides of the argument. Now, he's here to provide whatever support he can, whichever way the decision goes. So he waits.

"He's _suffering_," Wilson tells Cuddy as they both watch House pull in a torturous breath at the end of eighteen seconds of apnea.

"And if we put him on a vent, we'll be prolonging the suffering. He's comatose now; in all likelihood he's unaware of what's happening to him. And in a few hours, a day maybe, it'll… be over. But if we intubate, get him on the respirator, he may regain consciousness at some point. And then he'll know that he's dying, that medically we're powerless to help him. He'll know everything, he'll _feel_ everything. Is that what you want for him?" Cuddy looks deep into Wilson's eyes, trying to make him understand.

"You _know_ it isn't," Wilson answers fervently. "But it doesn't have to be that way. We'll keep him heavily sedated, and the vent'll buy us the time we need to figure out how to treat this. I've got a couple leads on clinical trials; I'm waiting on a callback right now on a new compound that's shown promising results. Time, Cuddy. That's all I'm asking for—a little more time."

Cuddy sighs. "Sedation isn't foolproof, and if anyone can fight it off, it'll be House. I'm sorry; his kidneys are failing, his lungs are failing. The latest lab results indicate that his liver's next. And what happens when—not _if_, but _when_—the infection stops responding to linezolid?"

"By then, we'll have something else; I know it. Come _on_, Cuddy; we're wasting time! While we're standing here debating this, we're risking hypoxia, stroke, respiratory arrest—and we're not giving him the chance he needs to fight this."

Cuddy puts a hand on Wilson's arm and leads him over to sit on the edge of the cot. Both the situation and the discussion have left him drained, and he allows it. Cuddy sits beside him.

"Let's say you're right," Cuddy says quietly. "Let's say that we get him on the vent, stabilize him until we find an effective treatment. Surely you're aware of what his recovery would be like, the sequelae he'd face in light of his current condition. And that's assuming that nothing else goes wrong during treatment."

"Of course I'm aware of it. I know how long his recovery will be, the complications he'll face. But we'll deal with them. He's gonna be angry, miserable. He'll make my life a living hell; I _get_ that. And I'm okay with it. Told you I'm not Stacy; not gonna cut and run on him, no matter what he does, what he says."

"What if he meant what he said to Chase? What if you're wrong about him changing his mind, and that's the way he feels _now_?"

Wilson takes a deep breath, locks his eyes with Cuddy's. "He's been depressed, seriously depressed. And we didn't know just how bad it was until the brain cancer stunt. But you know what that told me? Told me he doesn't just want to _live_, he wants a _better_ life than he's got now. When he found out I'd been dosing him with antidepressants, he didn't get angry. More importantly, he didn't quit taking them! Cuddy, he doesn't want to die; maybe what he wants is another chance at life. And right now, you're the only one who can give me that chance."

Cuddy stares at Wilson. _He doesn't realize what he just said—he didn't catch his slip, saying 'me' instead of 'him'. This isn't just about House for him. House was right; Wilson does see this as his last chance to make things right. House is going to die. But before that happens, Wilson's got to feel that he's done everything humanly possible for him. And then maybe Wilson will be able to go on. Maybe House would understand that. Maybe he'd even approve…._

Cuddy looks over at House, then back to Wilson. "And if we do this, and he dies?"

"That's not going to happen. But… if he doesn't make it… he'll die knowing that we cared enough, loved him enough, to fight for him."

Cuddy has to blink away tears, and Wilson can see that she's beginning to waver. "Look, he's _going_ to get better," Wilson says. "It'll be long; it'll be hard. But I'll take a leave of absence from my practice, from the hospital. I'll make sure he's never alone, never has a chance to brood. I'll take care of him, and I'll monitor his mental state. And he'll get through it, we'll get through it. Whatever it takes." He looks at Cuddy, and the plea in his eyes is as loud as a shout.

"You'd give it all up, your own life, everything, just to help him?"

"That's what friends do," Wilson says simply.

Cuddy smiles faintly. "Do me a favor. Next time you're near a dictionary, look up _self preservation_. And then, try to learn what it means, okay?" She leans over and gives Wilson a hug.

"Is that a yes?" Wilson's afraid to hope. When Cuddy nods wordlessly, he hugs her back. "Thank you," he whispers. "You won't be sorry."

They both stand and return to House's side. "I'll do it," Wilson tells Cuddy quietly, but she can hear the immense strain in his voice.

"No," she responds. "I'll do it. I can't order Chase to go against a patient's expressed wishes."

Wilson almost smiles. "Why not? House makes him do it all the time."

Foreman steps forward, and Wilson and Cuddy both startle; they'd forgotten he was there. "I do this a lot more often than either of you," he tells them. "And God knows, wouldn't wanna risk damaging House's precious vocal cords!"

At his last remark, Cuddy and Wilson finally have genuine smiles on their pale, worried faces, which is exactly what Foreman had intended. He nods at them both, then says to Cuddy, "Take this man down to the cafeteria for some coffee, and get a decent meal into him."

Wilson starts to protest; then he sees Foreman's eyes. The message is clear—_you don't need to see this;_ _don't argue with me_—and it's wrapped in compassion. So Wilson nods, then looks down at his comatose friend.

"Not going far, pal. Be back soon. And… you're in good hands." Wilson looks gratefully over at Foreman. "The best."


	25. Chapter 25: CHANCES

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: **CHANCES

In the cafeteria, Cuddy and Wilson find an isolated table. Once they're seated, Cuddy says gently, "Earth to Dr. Wilson…." She's seen the distracted look in his eyes, knows that both his doctor's mind and his friend's heart are still up in the ICU with House.

Wilson makes an effort to pull himself back to the here-and-now, and smiles apologetically. "Sorry; not trying to be rude, it's just…."

"I know what it is. And it's okay. But… try to let it go for just a little while. You made a very good point when you told Chase that you need to be House's friend right now, not his physician. But that means that you've got to trust the people who _are_ seeing to his medical requirements, so that you can see to his emotional needs. I know that we made that more difficult for you when we overlooked his need for pain management, but believe me—that incident will only _improve_ our vigilance now."

"I do believe you. And I trust Foreman. I guess I just… I'm still dealing with my own negligence, and I've got this crazy idea that if I'm with him all the time I can keep him safe. Stupid, huh?"

Cuddy smiles sympathetically. "Not stupid at all. And if _anyone _bears constant watching, it'd be House."

"I just can't believe I've had everything backwards all these months! Never even occurred to me that he'd _expect_ me to be looking out for him; I always figured that he _tolerated_ it—just barely. One good thing, though, is that knowing this, it'll make his recovery period less stressful, on both him _and_ me. Because now it's going to be easier to ignore his gripes about the hovering!" Wilson smiles, but Cuddy's face is serious.

"_If_ he recovers," she says carefully, "you do realize that he may harbor some resentment about what we've done—putting him on the vent, disregarding all he said to Chase?"

"It's not what _we've_ done; it's what _I've_ done," Wilson responds. "He _will_ recover, and I _will_ take the responsibility for that decision. I pretty much forced you into it; I'm just grateful that you're allowing it. I can't expect you to… share in the blame."

"Have you given any thought to what you'll do, what you'll say to him, if he regains consciousness while he's on the vent?"

"The truth; I'll tell him the truth. I still refuse to believe that he _wants_ to die."

Cuddy shakes her head. "I… don't find it impossible that under these circumstances, he might not… want to fight. House is… not happy. He hasn't _been_ happy for a long time. He lives daily with pain that the rest of us can only begin to imagine. And he… hasn't had any support for a long time now." Cuddy pauses to see how this last statement is affecting Wilson, and she isn't surprised to see him with his head down, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. She lays a hand on his arm. "It's not all your fault, you know."

"Yeah, it is," he says. "But that isn't even important right now. What matters is getting him through this, starting to rebuild his trust, making sure he knows he _isn't _alone. You know, the first time I spoke to him after his team had gotten to the truth about the brain cancer, I told him that he has people who give a damn. Wasn't 'til hours afterward that I remembered something a patient once said to me, when she was asking me about House."

Wilson stops speaking, swallows some coffee. When he looks back at Cuddy, his eyes are moist. "She asked me if House cared about me, and I tossed off some thoughtless answer because I didn't want to think about it, didn't want to find out he _didn't_. But this patient, Rebecca, she called me on it. Told me '_it's not what people say, it's what they do_.' So there I am, standing in the room of a patient I'd tricked House into consulting on—I'd told him she was my cousin—and I knew. He'd taken her just because _I _asked him to. That was good enough for him. He showed me through his actions that yeah, he cares. And what have _any_ of us done recently, for him, to _demonstrate_ that we care, we give a damn?"

Cuddy thinks about this for a minute. "Nothing," she admits. "I've tried—gave him plane tickets a couple months ago when he mentioned a vacation. I… it was a lousy way of saying I thought he was doing a good job, he'd earned the time off. And he never used the tickets, and I never bothered to follow it up, find out why. I also never bothered to tell him _why_ I gave him the tickets."

"That's the thing. We've _told_ him we give a damn—but we haven't _done_ anything to prove it. House says everybody lies, but symptoms don't. The only 'symptoms' we've been displaying to him are anger, distrust, exasperation. We've been lying to him, berating him, scolding him, out of one side of our mouths, and telling him we give a damn out of the other. Called all this some awful dance the other day. It's worse than that. The whole thing's been more like an exercise in conditional friendship, conditional love. _Do it my way, or I won't like you anymore; I won't care about you. _And even when House _did_ try to do it my way, I never even acknowledged that, never said it was good enough."

Wilson looks intently at Cuddy before he continues. "But I'm not gonna wallow in it; we don't have time for that. I'm going to fix it, that's all. If he wakes up while he's on the respirator, I'll fix it then, make him see that he _does_ have a reason to live. If not, I'll fix it while he recovers. Not what we say, it's what we do—I'll _show_ him. I'll fix it."

Cuddy smiles at him, and nods. _You deserve the chance. I hope you get it._

"I've… uh… got one more favor to ask," Wilson continues. "I think it's time we notified his parents, and I…." His voice trails off.

"I already did that." Cuddy hesitates. "They're… not coming. I spoke with his father. He said that since House didn't think it was necessary to tell them about the shooting and the Ketamine coma until it was pretty much over with, that I should have House call them and let them know when this one was… resolved. I tried to explain how dire this situation could be, but…."

"I get the picture," Wilson responds grimly. "His poor mother; I'll try to give her a call later, answer her questions. Can't say I'm surprised at his father's response, though."

Cuddy looks at Wilson's face; his lips are drawn into a tight line, and she's glad she didn't tell him John House's parting shot; "That boy has more lives than a cat, and by my count he's only used up three of 'em—he'll be fine." Cuddy thinks that if he'd said that to Wilson, more than one House's life would currently be in danger.

Cuddy returns to House's room without Wilson. She's sent him for a shower, clean clothes. He'd been surprised when she'd mentioned it, and a little embarrassed. "You've had other things, more important things, on your mind," she'd reassured him. And he'd dutifully gone off, smiling tiredly and suddenly looking far too young for the weight, the responsibility of all that's happening.

But Cuddy had another reason for sending Wilson off; she needs to speak with Foreman alone, before Wilson returns. As she's gowning up prior to entering the cubicle, she's happy to see that Foreman's alone in the room with House.

"How's he doing; how'd it go?" she asks as she enters.

"He's doing okay now; suctioned quite a bit of fluid out of his lungs, and the intubation was smooth," Foreman responds. "And the latest labs show an improvement in renal function. So I guess things are as good as they're gonna get until we have a real plan for the VRSA. How's Wilson holding up?"

"He's doing… better than I thought. He's had a lot of time to think, realized a few things. And I believe that things'll change for him and House during House's recovery. If House recovers…." She asks the question with her eyes.

"If there aren't any drastic changes in his condition and we can find an effective treatment in the next forty-eight, seventy-two hours, he's got a 60 percent to 80 percent chance," Foreman tells her. "If not… less than 20 percent. And it won't be pleasant," he says bluntly.

"And what are the odds that he'll wake up while he's intubated?"

"Can't guarantee anything, but he probably won't. He was semi-comatose even before we got him on the vent, and he's on maximum sedation now. I, uh… didn't think Wilson would go for restraints, so I'm not taking any chances."

Cuddy smiles. "That's good. Makes it easier for both of them."

Foreman and Cuddy fall silent as they watch House, watch the vent breathe for him, watch the dialyzer do what his kidneys can't, see the measured drops of IV medication that are controlling his blood pressure, his heart rate, his hydration. And they're both thinking the same thing; _There's nothing easy about this. Nothing._


	26. Chapter 26: THE RIGHT THING

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: **THE RIGHT THING

_Cuddy was right about the sedation_, Wilson thinks ruefully as House awakens and his eyes widen with panic. His left hand flies to the endotracheal tube and his expression is shooting questions at Wilson.

Wilson carefully untangles House's fingers from the tube as he begins to explain what's happened. "You're intubated, House, on a vent. Nothing to worry about, just makes it easier for you with the pulmonary edema." He reaches to the bedside stand for a dry-erase board, puts it in front of House on the patient table across the bed.

_plenty to worry about_, House scribbles clumsily with his left hand. _labs?_

"Bloodwork's pretty much unchanged. We're hoping that after today's dialysis session we'll begin to see some real improvement in renal function." Wilson smiles encouragingly.

_lying_

Wilson frowns. "No. Linezolid's controlling the infection. Vanc concentrations are dropping; BUN and creatinine aren't getting any worse."

_not the whole truth. _House peers intently at Wilson; Wilson's surprised by how alert he appears.

"House, you don't need to worry about the details, okay? Let me do that for a while."

_MY life! __My__ health!!! _House scrawls forcefully.

Wilson heaves a sigh of resignation and sits down. "All right. The VRSA's still responding to linezolid, but susceptibility's weakening. We can't try combining it with an aminoglycoside yet; that's contraindicated with your renal function. But we're working on it. We'll find the answer, soon." Wilson pauses to see if this'll satisfy House, or if he's going to be compelled to spell out the entire grim picture. The next thing House writes answers his question.

_why vent?_

"Thought I explained that."

_details_

Wilson sighs again. There's no way around it—he'll have to simply level with House, let the cards fall where they may. "Your respiratory distress was increasing; you'd started having periods of apnea. You were headed for respiratory arrest; we had no choice."

House hesitates for a moment, then writes, _not __my__ choice_.

Wilson nods and meets House's eyes. "Yeah. Chase told Cuddy and me what you'd said to him after the incident. And he… uh… refused to put you on the vent. Cuddy backed him up. I, uh… browbeat Cuddy into it. Because I know you didn't mean it; you'd have told _me_—I would have known."

_tried_

Wilson briefly considers pretending that he hadn't suspected that House _had_ tried, at least twice, to tell him about the Advance Directive. _No. I've already decided to be honest with him; can't back away from that now. _"I know, House. But I _didn't_ know until Chase told us. And… since you hadn't spoken with me about it… I thought you might've changed your mind." Wilson holds his breath, awaiting House's response.

_no; kidneys, lungs going—liver next_

"Your kidneys will start to recover soon. And the edema will decrease then; your lungs'll improve quickly. We're monitoring your liver function closely; so far it's hanging in."

_not treating vrsa—die anyway_

"I'm not gonna let that happen. I'm doing research, contacting people around the clock; we'll come up with a treatment. If the linezolid holds out until your renal function improves, we'll get you on meropenem."

_if it doesn't?_

Wilson takes a deep breath. "If it doesn't, we'll have to take our chances with the kidneys, try the antibiotic anyway. We can deal with any renal damage later."

_no—NO!_

"House, everything's gonna be fine. We just need to buy a little time, figure out the best way to treat this."

House impatiently swipes the board clean with his hand, then scrawls, _long recovery—no guarantees_

"I can guarantee one thing; you'll have all the help you need, every step of the way."

_don't __want__ to need help! don't you GET that yet?? _House is becoming exasperated, and he glares at Wilson.

Wilson doesn't know what to say. "It's not forever, House. Just a few months, and then things'll be back to normal. You'll get your life back."

The exasperation morphs instantly into anger. _big freaking deal! my life! normal? where you been the last few years??_

Now Wilson's angry. "I've been _right here_, pal—suffering with you, trying to help you, picking up the pieces! Trying to be your friend! And let me tell you, you sure as hell don't make that easy!"

_you don't want to be my friend—you __need__ to be my friend. helps you avoid your own miserable life!_

Wilson forces himself to take a deep breath. He looks into House's eyes, speaks slowly, quietly, intently. "I'm here because I want to be here. Yeah, the truth is, your health _has_ had an impact on my life, and on our friendship. But I don't regret _any_ of the choices I've made since the infarction. And believe me, House—no matter what you think _my_ pathology is, no one—_no one_—would've been happier than I would've been if the Ketamine had worked."

_yeah—your little "it's all gonna be different" pep talk made __that__ clear!_

Wilson freezes; he actually feels his heart bump in his chest. He remembers, on the third day of the Ketamine-induced coma House had been in, telling his unconscious friend all the things they were going to do—things they'd once enjoyed together, couldn't do since the infarct. Jogging and golf, paintball. And how they were going to find the two hottest nurses in the hospital, ask them out. "_And we'll dance all night, House. And the next morning, we'll get up at dawn and hit the tennis courts. Need to make up for lost time, all the things we've missed out on._" But—he and House had been alone in the room; House had been comatose! No one else could've told House about that ridiculous, euphoric pep talk, that foolishly hopeful dream….

"You heard me?"

_yeah. sorry you missed out on so much—go back to your life now._

_Oh, God. _"House, our friendship is a big part of my life—the _best_ part. I don't miss those _things_. What I _miss_ is… doing them with _you_. That's what made 'em fun—made them… special. And now? Think I'd give up laughing at your commentary while we watch _Attack of the Killer Tomatoes_, just to go chase a piece of round plastic all over a piece of overpriced real estate? No way! Told you—no regrets. _None_. Not for a second! I mean it."

_you never asked __me__ if I had regrets—ever occur to you I might __prefer__ to be dead? Stacy's gone; my leg's gone. Now I'm looking at months of hell, just so I can work my way back to my usual hell—thanks to __you_

Wilson swallows against the sudden nausea that's risen in his throat. "But… I thought…. You told me… you said you didn't want to die, the night you OD'd. That… I'd given you the strength to pull through. And you were willing to risk a lot, inject chemicals into your _brain_, for a chance to be happy. House, after you found out I was slipping you antidepressants, you _chose_ to stay on them! None of those things are the actions of someone who's ready to give up on life."

House wipes the board clean with one furious sweep of his hand. He stares into Wilson, and his eyes are cold and resentful. Wilson watches as he fills the board with two bitter words:

_EVERYBODY LIES_

Then everything happens so quickly, Wilson's powerless to stop it. House flings the board across the room and, never pausing, reaches up and rips the endotracheal tube from his throat. There's blood coming from his mouth from the traumatic removal, and the vent alarm is screeching, and Wilson leaps out of his chair, and—

"It's okay, Dr. Wilson; I was just running a safety check on the monitors. Sorry I woke you." The respiratory tech smiles and leaves the room as Wilson, sitting bolt upright on the cot, attempts to catch his own breath. He waits until his heart rate begins to approach normal again before he stands and makes his way to the bed.

Wilson looks down at House; even comatose, even heavily sedated, Wilson sees the tightness around his eyes that Wilson recognizes as uncontrolled pain. And he's back on the cooling blanket; temp must've spiked again. Wilson depresses the button on the PCA, and whispers to the empty room, "What have I done?"

------

**A/N: **I'd much appreciate knowing how you kids feel about whether or not I successfully "carried off" this chapter, as it's tricky to do this sort of thing correctly. Please feel free to be honest, and if you don't feel comfortable leaving a review, I invite you to PM or email me; email address can be found in my profile. Many, many thanks! **mjf**


	27. Chapter 27: MOTIVATIONS

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: **MOTIVATIONS

Wilson is hard at work on his laptop, following up on research and emails, when Cameron quietly enters the room. He finds that he's glad to see her; he knows that she'll understand his decision about the vent, and support it. And he could _use_ some support right now; his dream is still all too vivid in his mind. He smiles at her, indicates for her to sit beside him.

Cameron stops at the bedside, places a gentle hand on House's arm and watches him for a moment before approaching Wilson and perching on the edge of the cot. "How is he?" she asks.

"A lot more comfortable since we got him on the vent. Temp's back up; I don't like that, but I guess it's to be expected—the effect of the linezolid is beginning to weaken. And the sedation is keeping him out, thank God—hate for him to wake up right now."

There's an odd, unreadable expression on Cameron's face. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you hate for him to wake up?"

Wilson frowns at her. "I'd think that would be pretty clear. He'd be… suffering. And he'd have questions. A _lot_ of questions, that we can't answer yet. And communication would be difficult with the vent, and that'd just piss him off, which wouldn't be fun for any of us." Wilson offers a small smile, but Cameron doesn't return it.

"And did you think of _any_ of those things, before you chose to disregard his wishes?"

Wilson, shocked at the quiet anger in Cameron's voice, stares at her before he says slowly, "I thought of all of them. Of course. My decision wasn't easy, but it was… necessary. He'd have been… dead… in twenty-four hours if we hadn't intervened."

"It wasn't _we_; it was _you_. Dr. Wilson, none of us wants to lose House, but Chase and Cuddy were ready to follow his instructions, ready to make it as easy for him as they could. Because they respect him, and they respected his decision."

"What are you saying, Cameron? You think that I don't respect him? You think that medically, I made the wrong decision for him? Or is this just another discussion about my impure motives? Because I really don't have time for that."

Wilson manages to keep his voice low and even, but there's no mistaking the irritation in his tone. During the narcotics investigation against House, Cameron had accused Wilson of making the deal with Tritter for personal reasons, to make Wilson's own disrupted life easier. She'd told him that he was _pretending_ his motives were pure, and it still rankled. Wilson had gone through hell trying to help House, to save his life; he'd never even _considered_ the impact—good _or_ bad—on himself.

Cameron takes a deep breath before responding. "No, I know that you respect House. And I know that medically there are reasons for either decision. But… yeah… I _do_ think that your decision was… selfish." She looks at Wilson challengingly.

Now it's Wilson's turn to breathe deeply. "Cameron, during the investigation, I made that deal because it was in House's best interests. That's the _only_ reason I did it. And now, the _only_ reason I want him on the vent is because I happen to feel that _living_ is also in his best interest."

"Don't you think that House is capable of deciding for himself what's best for him? He's an adult, not some child who can't reason things out, analyze his options!"

Wilson thinks back on the conversation he'd had with Cuddy the night House had been admitted, about the essential grown-up element, that 'secret' that House doesn't get. Now he smiles humorlessly. "That's where you're wrong, Dr. Cameron. It's also why you could never be… what House needs. When we care about someone, and know them well, after a time we learn things about how they live their lives. And one thing I've learned about House is that… he doesn't know how to put the brakes on. He does everything in the extreme. Most of the time, that works out well for his patients. But in his personal life, not so well. They say we choose our closest friends to supply the things that we sense are… missing in our own make-up. And House knows that he's missing the ability, even the desire, to control his own behavior."

"So you think he chose you to be the 'voice of reason' in his life?" Cameron's almost sneering.

Wilson doesn't even need to consider the question. "Yeah; that's _exactly_ what I think. I also think it'd be best if we… end this conversation now. I'd hate for you to have to start examining your _own_ motives, in mindlessly going along with what you think House wants."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cameron bristles.

"Just as I said. But let me point out to you that no matter _how_ proud you believe House would be of you for supporting his decision, you should really keep in mind that he'd have a very difficult time expressing that pride if he were dead." Wilson's voice is cold, and the words are terse—but he doesn't care. He doesn't have time for this nonsense; neither does House.

Cameron stands and glares down at Wilson. "You know what you've done? You've turned a brilliant, vital man into nothing more than just another patient, another hopeless case being kept alive by the curse of technology. What you've done isn't compassionate; it isn't even _humane_. It's… it's… nothing more than _torture_. You keep _that_ in mind while you watch him die." Cameron, tears in her eyes, turns and leaves before a stunned and angry Wilson can formulate a response.

Wilson rises slowly and walks to House's side. He stands there for quite a while, gazing thoughtfully at the unconscious man. After a time, he shakes his head, whispers to himself, "_She's wrong. She doesn't know him; she's wrong._" Then he picks up the bottle of artificial tears and places several drops carefully in both of House's eyes. When he's cleaned the dried blood away from the cracked mouth and moistened the parched lips, he moves the sheet away to begin passive range of motion on House's leg.

As he gently works the muscles, Wilson allows the mindless repetition of the exercises to calm him, and the ability to do even this one small concrete thing for House to soothe him. It isn't until he's finished the tasks and resettled House comfortably that he trusts his voice. When he speaks, he talks as if House can hear and understand him; he prays that on some level, he might.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing, House. I think I am. But you need to know something. No matter what happens, how this turns out, I _believe_ that you deserve this chance. And I… want to believe… that you trust me to do what's best. So that's what I'm doing—I'm doing my best by you. You hold on to that, okay? No matter what happens, or what anyone else says, you just… hold on to that."


	28. Chapter 28: HONEST ANSWERS

**A/N: **I am _so_ terribly sorry! Due to an Act of God (or Progress Energy Corp, depending on to whom you speak), my entire town was without electricity much of the day yesterday--and without cable and internet from early afternoon until very late evening. So although I was running my home on generator power, I hadn't any 'net access until approximately 8:00pm. Even then, it was _so_ intermittent that I was unable to stay online long enough to post Chapter Twenty-Eight. I _was _able to shoot a quick email off to ElementalANimal, who then very kindly left a notice in the reviews about what was occurring, and I'd really like to thank her for her help. And again--my most humble apologies! **mjf**

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: **HONEST ANSWERS

Cuddy takes the newest lab results to Wilson herself; they're going to need to talk now, because virtually everything that can go wrong is going wrong. And they're running out of ways to make anything go right.

As she gowns up outside House's cubicle, Cuddy sees Wilson sitting beside the bed. He's pointing at the TV screen, and he's talking, laughing. She frowns; there's no one else in the room except House.

As she enters, Wilson is saying, "You're really gonna have to explain this to me again. I'm not getting this whole 'she left her husband to return to her second ex-husband but then she found out she's pregnant with her sister's boyfriend's baby' plotline." He stops speaking, acknowledges Cuddy with a smile, then tells House, "'Course, it's a lot easier to understand than the 'she's a woman who used to be a man who used to be a woman' plot. Lost me on that one _real_ early in the game."

Cuddy regards Wilson quizzically. "Fascinating conversation," she says.

"Don't mind me," Wilson responds. "I'm just keeping House up to date on his soaps. Apparently, when you miss a day, you actually miss a year or two. Or ten. Some kid who was four last week turned up today as a fourteen year old bimbo. Wouldn't want House to get too far behind," he smiles.

Cuddy tries, and fails, to return the smile. "I've, uh… got the labs, and… we need to talk."

Wilson's face grows immediately serious. "That doesn't sound good." He clicks off the television, stands and joins Cuddy across the room. She hands him the paperwork and waits while he scrutinizes every word, every number.

"Damn," Wilson whispers. "Okay, it's time to go with the meropenem then. And we'll combine it with teicoplanin; some hospitals are getting good results with that combo. Have you notified the pharmacy?"

Cuddy won't meet his eyes when she speaks. "We… can't do that."

"Why not? It's time to start fighting back against the VRSA, and so far, that's the best we've got. So—unless you have a better idea—we need to get those meds in here."

Now Cuddy's meeting his eyes, and Wilson studies her expression. It's sad, and sympathetic, and bespeaks news she'd rather not impart. Wilson feels a rush of compassion for her, asks gently, "What is it? Talk to me; please."

"Anything we put him on now would… shut down his kidneys, probably permanently. He'd be on dialysis indefinitely, and with his history… they wouldn't even put him on the bottom of the transplant list—you know that. And he's got no immune system to speak of, and now his liver's failing…." Cuddy stops speaking and looks pleadingly at Wilson.

"What are you trying to say, Cuddy? You saying that we should give up, throw in the towel, watch him die, just because the odds are against us? I would've thought that by now, House himself has shown you often enough that the odds are just… numbers—they don't have to mean anything at all!" There's a desperate note in Wilson's voice, and Cuddy looks pained.

"It's… not just my decision," she tells him. "Not anymore. Chase says that if we continue treatment, he's… he's going to go to the Ethics Committee, tell them what House said, lay it all out for them."

"He can't do that!" Wilson explodes.

Cuddy doesn't say anything; they both know that he can.

"All right," Wilson finally says. "I need to speak to Chase, make him see that the situation isn't hopeless. And I need to talk with him _now_, before any more time is wasted. Is he here?"

"Yes, he is—but you have to understand that he's determined to honor House's wishes, and… I don't think you're going to be able to change his mind."

Wilson is silent for a full minute. Then, keeping his voice neutral, nonjudgmental, he asks Cuddy, "If it _was_ up to you, what would your decision be?"

Cuddy's already thought long and hard about the answer; as soon as Chase had come to her, told her what he planned, she'd examined her own heart and mind. She'd weighed all the factors, tried to be objective. And she'd reached a conclusion. She doesn't think that knowing her opinion will make this any easier on Wilson, though—as a matter of fact, she fears it will make things even _more_ difficult for him. But he'd asked, and he deserves an answer—an _honest_ answer. So she looks straight at Wilson, and says simply, "I don't want him to die."

Wilson had been holding his breath, awaiting the answer that would help him make up his own mind. Now he breathes again, and the overwhelming relief almost makes him dizzy. "I need… to talk to Chase. But not here. Will you stay with House?"

"Of course."

Wilson nods his thanks, and goes to speak to House. "I need to go take care of something, pal. Don't know how long it'll take. But Cuddy's here with you, and she'll stay until I get back. Try not to give her a hard time, okay? And you remember what we talked about; I'm doing my best by you. It's not… logical; it's not black and white. It may not even be the right thing to do. But in my mind, in my heart, it's the _only_ thing. That makes it worth fighting for; _you're_ worth fighting for. So… wish me luck."

Wilson turns away from the bed and walks to the door. As he leaves the cubicle, he hears Cuddy whisper fervently, "_Good luck_."

Chase is in the Diagnostics office; he looks up when Wilson enters, and Wilson can tell that he's been expecting this visit. Neither of the men speaks immediately. Wilson pours himself a cup of coffee, sits down across from Chase.

"Linezolid's stopped working. Cuddy tells me you see that as the end of the road, that if we fight you on this you'll go to the Ethics Committee. And I'm wondering… what've you learned, working with House the last three years?"

Chase takes a deep breath, gazes at the ceiling. "I've learned that sometimes, no matter what we do, the patient is going to die. I've learned that we aren't God—that sometimes not even House can fight death and win. And I've learned that family members can't be objective, so sometimes the unpleasant decisions fall to us."

"Are you saying that I can't possibly know what's best for House? That you can just… discount everything I've been through with him, everything I've learned about who he is, what he believes?"

Chases gazes thoughtfully at Wilson. "I've got a question for _you_. Let's say the decision is yours. Forget that you're his best friend. Forget that you're the closest thing to family that he's got. You're his physician, and all you've got to go on is something he said to you before anyone could know what was going to happen, or just _how_ bad things were going to get. What would _you_ do now?"

Wilson _wants_ to say, "I'd keep fighting," but it isn't the whole truth, and he knows it. The whole truth is a lot more complicated, and he's had plenty of time, over the last three days, to figure it out. So he regards the young doctor sitting in front of him, the man who didn't get a chance to say goodbye to his own father because, so often, the truth is obscured by emotion. He looks Chase in the eye, and when he speaks, there's no question about the veracity of the words he reluctantly forces out. "I… just… don't know. I don't know what I'd do in your position." Wilson looks down, closes his eyes; he knows that his honesty has cost him the opportunity to argue for continuing treatment—he's just condemned House to death.

"Dr. Wilson, I need to go speak with the pharmacist. And you should be getting back to House, shouldn't you? He's going to need his family supporting him if he's going to beat this thing."

Wilson raises his head. "What?"

Chases nods at Wilson. "I didn't know what to do either. It isn't as easy, as clear-cut, as I thought it would be. In a situation like this, I'd usually go to House, get his take on it. I couldn't do that this time, of course, so I did the next best thing. And… I just watched a physician I admire put his deepest personal feelings aside, to try to help me make this decision, and I heard him tell me the truth. So since I _don't_ know what's right, if I'm going to make a mistake I'd… rather err on the side of life."

Wilson's stunned, and unable to speak; all he's able to do is stare at Chase.

Chase smiles at him, says, "Finish your coffee; you're gonna need it. I'm off to the pharmacy to get the new meds."

And then he's gone, leaving Wilson, still speechless, to gaze after him, in wonder, at yet another unexpected turn of events.


	29. Chapter 29: TAKING CHANCES

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: **TAKING CHANCES

When Wilson returns to House's cubicle, Chase hasn't yet arrived. Cuddy, pale and anxious, is searching Wilson's face as he walks toward her—so he quickly smiles, nods, tells her, "It's _okay_."

Cuddy is torn between hope and disbelief. "What happened? What did he say?"

Wilson leads her over to the cot; they sit, and he hands her a cup of coffee. "He said that in the last three years, he's learned that even House can't save everyone. He said he's learned that sometimes doctors have to make the tough decisions. And then… then he said that he'd decided that he'd rather err on the side of life. He's gonna give us a chance, give _House_ a chance, to beat this thing! He's setting up the new meds with the pharmacist now."

"But what—I don't understand! How did you change his mind?"

Wilson shakes his head; he isn't sure either. "I just told him that if I were in his position, I didn't know what I'd do. He thanked me for my honesty, told me to get back here, that House needs his family…."

Cuddy grabs for Wilson's hand, and they sit there in silence, drawing strength and comfort from one another, for several minutes. Then Wilson stands and approaches the bedside.

"House, listen up. Bought us some more time. We're not out of the woods yet, though—not by a long shot. So here's the plan. I'm gonna work even harder on finding the answers. And I won't let you down. All I need for _you_ to do is to keep fighting. I know you're tired; I know it'd be easy to give up. But you can't. You _won't_, because there's a puzzle still on the table. And you've never, ever given up on a puzzle. Remember Ester? _Twelve years_, House. And you solved it. I'm not asking for twelve years; just a few days. Just keep fighting for a few more days."

Cuddy joins Wilson, leans over the bedrail and says to House, "Wilson may be the only one you listen to—and you don't even do _that_ on a regular basis. But this is an order, House. Remember me? The boss? _Your_ boss? I'm ordering you to stay with us. I just… won't accept anything less. Got me?"

When Cuddy straightens up and looks at Wilson, there are tears in her eyes, but she's smiling. She says sternly to Wilson, "This is one memo from Administration he'd damned well better _not_ disregard. The no-lab-coat thing, I can live with. The no-House thing; not an option. And don't think I'm unaware of _who_ sees to it that he _does_ follow the odd order, here and there. _You_ just make sure he knows this one's nonnegotiable."

"Hear that, House?" Wilson moves to the other side of the bed. "You're amazing; you don't even have to be _conscious_ to get me in trouble with Cuddy! You still owe me for that stunt you pulled with the home health care agency—don't leave me holding the bag on this one, too."

Cuddy cocks her head. "Think I should tell him that I recently heard that Hell consists of Clinic duty, 24/7? And that _all_ the patients have some variant of the common cold?"

Wilson chuckles softly. "That should do it."

In the doorway, Chase observes them as he gowns up. They're silent now, content to stand on either side of the bed, just watching House continue to breathe, to live. It doesn't seem to matter to either of them that a machine controls the breathing, or that other machines are controlling pretty much everything else. All that seems to matter is that House is still here, that he has a chance.

Chase sees the hope, and the love, in their faces, and the last bit of ambivalence he'd had about disregarding House's wishes fades away. _If you could see your friends now, House, even you would understand_, he thinks. _They aren't ready, and even if all I did was buy them a little time to __get__ ready, I'm hoping you're okay with it._

Cuddy and Wilson look up as Chase enters the room. Both pairs of eyes are riveted to the bag of medication he carries. Chase knows that this is the time to tell them that the bag holds no magic, that the only guarantee it might offer is a lifetime of dialysis for House. But he also knows that they're aware of the facts; it's a chance they're willing to take. So he silently hangs the medication, brushes off their whispered thanks, leaves them with their fragile hopes intact for a little while longer.

Once Chase has gone, Wilson leaves House's side to return to his laptop. He's all too aware of everything Chase had chosen not to say, and he knows that every hour that passes without a definitive answer means that House is an hour closer to chronic renal failure, to spending the remainder of his life reliant on both the cane _and_ on the machine that's currently standing in for his kidneys. It still causes Wilson great pain, fathomless regret, that he'll never be able to do anything to change the situation with House's leg—but he's determined that the dialyzer won't become a part of the landscape of House's life too.

Cuddy remains at House's side. She's holding his hand, stroking his arm, whispering to him. Wilson can't hear what she's saying—but it isn't difficult to read the expression on her face.

Wilson smiles to himself. _You know what, House? When this is all over, you might wanna save another patient, score another pair of tickets to a play. And this time, __you__ take Cuddy. And… be a gentleman. That beautiful, crazy lady knows you pretty well—and she cares about you anyway. Go figure. So you show her you're worth caring about. Remember what I told you? Start small. One step at a time. I've got a feeling that all those little steps might take you somewhere you haven't been in a long, long, time…._

A quiet _ping_ from the computer interrupts Wilson's thoughts, and he quickly clicks over to his email box; he's been expecting important correspondence, information that could turn this whole thing around. He scans the email rapidly, and then rereads it more carefully, the expression on his face changing from one of hope to one of defeat. Cuddy glances up at the slam of the laptop's cover.

"What's the matter?" she asks, walking over to join him.

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know… this doesn't change anything. Can't let it get me down. I've been in contact with a team of researchers at UCLA. They're working with a compound that shows great activity against VRSA. No renal toxicity. It's excreted primarily by the liver, but even that—it breaks down almost completely in the body, so by the time it gets to the liver, it's virtually harmless."

"Sounds like exactly what House needs," Cuddy says. "So what's the problem?"

"First test group's begun to show blood dyscrasias. Irreversible neutropenia. With the prednisone already tanking House's immune system… he's not a candidate."

Both are silent for a moment, and then Wilson takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. "That's okay. It's okay. Just have to work a little harder, that's all. There's something out there, and I'm gonna find it. Made him a promise; I'm going to keep it."

Wilson opens the laptop again, and within moments is absorbed in a new abstract that's just arrived.

Cuddy returns to House and asks him quietly if he knows just how important he is to Wilson—_and_ to her.

And House, of course, has no answer.


	30. Chapter 30: LITTLE THINGS

**A/N: **_I respectfully request that if you are going to do me the honor of leaving a review, please refrain from personal attacks. As well, I find it… interesting… that it took the "reviewer" in question a full twenty-nine chapters to decide that this story is a bunch of "freaking junk;" I'm paraphrasing here, but the first word did, indeed, begin with "f" and the second word did have four letters. And I most humbly apologize to any readers who were subjected to this person's charming piece of journalism prior to my exercising my right to hit the 'delete' button! I will __**not**__ turn off anonymous reviews; many kind people have taken their valuable time to review anonymously, and I've no desire to inconvenience these folks. My final suggestion to you; if this story holds little interest for you, there are many others on this site from which to choose. Thank you. _**mjf**

**CHAPTER THIRTY: **LITTLE THINGS

When Chase enters House's cubicle shortly before 2:00pm, he makes a point of smiling warmly at Wilson. "Would it be all right to examine him?" he asks; his tone is deferential.

"Of course." Wilson joins Chase at the bedside, and remains silent during Chase's assessment.

Chase removes the stethoscope from his ears. "There's still fluid in the lower lobes, but his breath sounds are improving. And the generalized edema's decreased. His nurse told me that his temp's stayed below 103 today." He pulls a lab slip from his pocket and hands it to Wilson. "White count's still in the basement, but his BUN and creatinine have both fallen since yesterday. Even though his urinary output hasn't changed, that indicates an improvement in renal function." Chase appears sincerely happy to be able to share this small piece of positive news with Wilson.

Wilson studies the lab results, then looks at Chase. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"I know that… none of this is what you would've chosen. But you're giving it everything you've got anyway. And you're doing a damned good job of pretending to understand _why_ I made the decisions I did. Means a lot."

"But I _do_ understand, Dr. Wilson. I've understood from the beginning. The situation… is what it is. And at this point there's little to be gained, for anyone, by _not_ supporting your choices."

Wilson regards Chase with a new respect. "I hope House has at least mentioned to you how much you've grown as a doctor," he says.

Chase laughs. "You're kidding, right?"

Wilson smiles wryly. "Then I'll tell you. You've grown a lot these past three years; you've become a physician I'd be proud to have care for me, or my family." Wilson looks at House. "I _am_ proud to have you caring for my family," he says quietly.

Chase acknowledges the kind words with a brief nod. He appreciates the praise, especially coming from Wilson—but after working with House for so long, he isn't quite comfortable with it. So he changes the subject. "Leigh Tarrington came in for a follow-up yesterday."

"The young woman from the group home? How's she doing?"

"She appears to be recovering uneventfully." Chase shrugs.

"How can that be? Shouldn't she be on different antibiotics, something stronger?"

"Apparently she's doing well on the oral rifampin."

"I think we need to put her on Zyvox. If the infection mutates—"

"Dr. Wilson, she isn't ill! There's no reason to put her on oral linezolid. You have to remember, her infection isn't systemic. She hasn't been on months of prednisone, _years_ of opioids and NSAIDs. Her case is completely different; she's going to be fine."

"But look at House, how sick he is! And it was Leigh's blood he was inoculated with. Aren't we risking her health by just _assuming_ it's all under control?"

Chase knows that Wilson is simply projecting his worry over House onto Leigh, and that somewhere in his subconscious mind, he's also railing over the injustice of House having to go through this. So he answers as gently as he can. "She… isn't House. And there are many cases where localized infection responds differently than systemic does; it's well documented. No one understands all the reasons why, but it happens. Bottom line is, she got lucky; House didn't."

Wilson contemplates Chase's understatement as he looks at House, who's currently undergoing dialysis. Each session is removing a significant amount of fluid, and House even looks a little better. But Wilson knows that the improvement will be fleeting, now that he's back on nephrotoxic medication—unless they can find something, fast, that'll fight the VRSA without affecting House's compromised renal function, or throwing him into liver failure. And so far, he's hit nothing but dead ends in his research.

"I take it Cameron and Foreman haven't had any luck with the VRSA studies in Canada, have they?" he asks Chase.

"I'd have told you. But Cameron's trying to figure out if there's a safe way to boost House's immune system without adding to his current problems."

"Did they double check? Have they spoken directly with the people in charge of the trials?"

"I'm certain they did. If House has taught us anything, it's how to be thorough, not overlook the slightest thing."

"Could you check with them again, please? Make _sure_ they've spoken with the right people? The trial House needs is out there, somewhere. We can't afford to take the chance that some misinformation, communicated by the wrong person, could cause us to overlook something that might save House's life."

"I'll confirm it with Cameron and Foreman," Chase says patiently.

"And would you mind making sure that they're tracking down those older abstracts I asked for, at the medical library? I emailed Cameron a list this morning, and I haven't heard back from her yet. There might be something vital there; I've _got_ to have those copies. Can't afford to leave _any_ stone unturned—I need Cameron to get the abstracts to me just as soon as possible."

Wilson is pacing as he speaks, and Chase can tell that he's becoming agitated with his own inability to solve this puzzle for House; he's seen House exhibit the same behaviors many times when a case has been tough, when the answers stay just out of reach.

Chase regards Wilson for a moment. "We don't want to lose him either, Dr. Wilson. We're _all_ working very hard to get this figured out. You _do_ know that, don't you?"

Wilson stops pacing, sighs and shakes his head. "Of course I know that. I'm sorry, Chase. Seem to be saying that to you a lot lately, don't I? It's just…."

Chase says kindly, "It's all right—really. We understand how hard this is for you. And if you really want to know, all your… criticism… makes it a bit easier for me; kind've like having House peering over my shoulder. That's a _good_ thing, by the way." He smiles.

"Thanks, Chase; I… appreciate that. But… you can't understand everything that's at stake here. It's not just House's life, or even his health. He deserves… so much more than he's gotten lately, especially from me. I've got a lot to make up to him, and I want the chance to do that. This isn't the way I would've chosen, but we play the cards we're dealt. And I intend to win this hand."

"If anyone can, Dr. Wilson, I don't doubt that it'll be you. House is really lucky to have you."

Wilson deflects the compliment; "We're _all_ lucky to have _him_, Chase. That might be… difficult… to remember sometimes, but he really is worth the aggravation he causes." Wilson smiles faintly, then goes to the bedside and begins House's oral care.

Chase starts to remind Wilson that the nurses can do it; then he remembers something. He and Cameron had been tending to a newborn in the NICU, an infant who could be dying. The young parents hadn't even had a real chance to bond yet with their child. So Cameron had called the couple—standing anxiously at the viewing window—in, to 'help' change the sheet on the isolette. She'd had them lift their child. And that small opportunity to actually touch the infant, to _do_ something for their baby, had brought the parents so much comfort. So now Chase realizes why these apparently menial tasks are so important to Wilson; Chase says nothing.

As Wilson finishes the oral care and begins range of motion exercises, he looks at Chase. "Mind turning on the TV? Almost time for the soaps."

Chase hits the remote button, looks quizzically at Wilson.

Wilson smiles wryly. "Just trying to keep a little bit of… uh… normalcy in House's life. Yeah, I know he probably can't hear the TV—or me—but it gives us a break, a way to… push aside what's happening, for a little while."

Chase feels a rush of compassion for this man who's willing to risk anything, do _everything_, to help House live. He walks to Wilson's side, places a warm hand on his shoulder, and squeezes. "You're doing a great job," he says sincerely.

As Chase leaves the cubicle, he can't help wondering what effect it'll have on Wilson when House dies. Chase hopes that Wilson will be able to find solace in remembering all he's doing now to provide comfort for House. Wilson's being given a gift—a chance to say goodbye to a man who's been so central to his life. When it's over, he'll have that, and Chase can't help but envy him. He thinks of his father's death, the way he'd found out, all the missed chances. Chase hadn't been prepared, and it haunts him still. Watching House die is difficult; it's horrible—but at least there'll be time for goodbyes.


	31. Chapter 31: SIGHT

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE:** SIGHT

Wilson's just finished eating dinner with Cuddy when Cameron shows up. It's the first time she's come here since she'd accused Wilson of torturing House, and he isn't terribly happy to see her; it's early evening, the unit is quieting down, House seems comfortable. Wilson had been planning on some uninterrupted time for correspondence and then an hour of TV with House—their current version of a quiet night at home.

Cameron approaches the bed; she's holding a syringe. Wilson moves to block her access to House, and puts a hand on her arm to stop her; his eyes are cold.

"What's that?" he asks. His posture makes it clear that Cameron's overstepped her bounds, and Cameron is insulted.

Watching Wilson standing so protectively over House, Cuddy's reminded suddenly of a fierce soldier on the battlefield, standing guard over a mortally wounded comrade, a soldier suddenly reduced to the tender young boy he really is, fighting against impossible odds for his dying brother.

"Dr. Cameron," Cuddy intervenes, "Dr. Wilson will be questioning everything you do; get used to it. He's the closest thing we have to House right now; you're not to begin any new treatment without checking with him first."

Cameron nods her grudging understanding, and turns to Wilson. "I'm sorry; I should have asked you. It's Neupogen. I've researched its use in House's situation, and I think it might help his immune system depression."

Wilson frowns. "We use it for chemo patients all the time—increases the white count, lets 'em continue chemotherapy, cuts down on chances of infection. But I've never heard of it being used to counteract the effects of prednisone."

"It's not been widely studied," Cameron admits. "But the risks are minimal, and it _could_ really help." She hands Wilson the syringe.

Wilson examines the syringe thoughtfully, then nods and looks at Cameron. "Thank you. You're right; won't hurt him, and it could help. I'll let him know what's going on, and why. You don't need to stay; I'll administer it." Wilson turns his back on Cameron, effectively dismissing her.

Cameron looks to Cuddy for help; Cuddy says nothing, simply inclines her head towards the door.

Once Cameron has left, Wilson approaches the bed. "House, Cameron thinks we might be able to boost your immune system with Neupogen. I'm willing to give it a try. Worst side effect might be bone pain, but you're getting Dilaudid so that shouldn't be a problem for you."

As Wilson speaks, he locates a site on House's left arm for the subcutaneous injection. Once he's swabbed the site, he says, "Okay, quick pinch here, then we're done." He gives the injection swiftly, then presses gently on the area. He continues speaking quietly to House. "Only thing I've heard patients complain about is soreness at the site, and they tell me a little pressure helps with that, so I'll just hold on here for a minute."

"You're very good with him," Cuddy observes quietly.

"Never know how much he's aware of," Wilson says sadly. "Ironic, isn't it? I wait 'til he probably _can't _hear me to start treating him like a human being. Maybe if I'd shown a little compassion months ago, a lot of things could've been avoided. Talk about locking the barn door…."

Cuddy joins Wilson at the bedside. "You told me yourself that it won't do him any good now to wallow in the mistakes we made in the past. All we can do is try to make it up to him—and that's exactly what you're doing. Give yourself a little credit, okay?"

"Credit, for finally doing the right thing? Doesn't work that way. No bonus points for doing too late what I should've been doing all along. You know when I blew it? Long time ago. His first week back at work, when he came to me and told me he was in pain. And I… _laughed_ at him. Really; I laughed, told him he'd taken so much Vicodin he couldn't even recognize the normal aches and pains of middle age."

"But that was probably the truth!" Cuddy interjects.

"We'll never know. And the _reason_ we'll never know is, I let the window close. Hell, it didn't just _close_, it slammed shut. Told you back then that we had a small window of time when he might be healthy enough to change. What I didn't realize was, House was giving _me_ a window, too. And I _consciously_ closed it—locked it and threw away the key. And then… I drew the blinds over it!"

"What are you talking about?"

"When House showed up in my office. He didn't come in there as a friend; he actually presented himself as a _patient_—a frightened patient. Didn't make any jokes; wasn't at all casual. Hell—he wouldn't even _look_ at me! When I asked him how bad the pain was, know what he said? Said, 'Bad enough that I'm telling _you_.' If one of my oncology patients had come in, scared that his cancer had returned, and I'd laughed in his face, my practice wouldn't last very long—I wouldn't deserve to _have _a practice."

"But it's understandable that you wouldn't know how to react; House had never come to you as a patient before."

"And that only makes my behavior _more_ inexcusable. There he was, _giving_ me that opportunity to help him medically. Doing what I'd been after him for years to do, actually talking seriously about his condition. I laugh, blow off his concerns, wave my prescription pad at him and make sure he sees me put it away. What I did to him, it was… cruel."

Cuddy realizes that there's nothing she can say; Wilson's right—his treatment of House may have been the catalyst for all that followed.

"The _worst_ thing about all that," Wilson continues, "is that he _is_ my friend. I'm sure he figured that one way or another I'd support him, deal with his fears, his concerns. If not as a physician, then at _least_ as his best friend. I lost the patient; almost lost the friend, too." Wilson gazes at House. "Still might."

"Did it ever occur to you," Cuddy says thoughtfully, "that it _was_ your caring and concern that made you act as you did? It's a perfectly normal reaction for us to want the people we love not to be suffering. Maybe you just… weren't _ready_ to face it, that despite the treatment, nothing had changed for him. That's certainly understandable."

Wilson's not about to let himself off the hook that easily. "Maybe _he_ wasn't ready to face it either—but he didn't have that choice. I was blinding myself to the reality of his situation; I was being pretty damned selfish, wasn't I? Cuddy, I need to ask you something; I'd like an honest answer."

"I'll do my best," she promises.

"I… had a nightmare. Forced me to take a look at a few things. But I want to know. Am I still in denial? Have I done the wrong thing? Am I still being selfish?"

Cuddy thinks for quite a while before she answers. "I don't think so, not based on all that you've told me. Because… if you'd followed your heart months ago, when all this started, I think you'd have just naturally made the right decisions. Same for me. But what we did was… we punished _House_, for the misbehavior of his _body_. In the last few days, though, it's been different. This crisis has stripped away right and wrong. What it's left you with is… an inability to do anything except follow your own instincts. There's no denial now, no good versus bad, no personal agendas. All you've got to go on is… what's _true_. And House—well, he values honesty above all else. So…."

Wilson, a newfound peace in his eyes, finishes the thought. "So as long as I don't lose sight of the truth, I'm doing the right thing for him." Wilson nods; that's comfort, reassurance enough for right now—it'll have to be.


	32. Chapter 32: CHANNELING HOUSE

**A/N: **Sorry for no post yesterday; FanFic's "15 minutes" of adjustments wouldn't allow me to log in all day. Gotta love it...NOT. **mjf**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: **CHANNELING HOUSE

Wilson closes his laptop with a sigh, then stands and stretches. Cuddy's been sitting with House while Wilson worked, and she looks every bit as tired as he feels.

"I'll take over now," he tells her. "It's almost time for our 'television hour' anyway. You should go home, get some rest." What Wilson _doesn't_ say is that this hour with House is time he guards jealously. The nurses know not to bother them, and for this short amount of time Wilson is able to put aside the puzzle, concentrate on simply being with his friend.

House may be in a chemically-induced coma, or perhaps his unconsciousness is illness-induced. But it doesn't matter which it is, and it doesn't matter that, in theory, House _should_ be unaware of what's going on—Wilson's discovered that when they watch television 'together' in the evening, House's heart rate and blood pressure drop to a more normal level. And he never appears to need extra pain medication. When Wilson talks to him, narrates the program, makes awful jokes, House is… at peace. And _that's_ all that matters.

But Cuddy seems loath to leave. She spends much of her free time with House now, and Wilson usually appreciates it—it frees him up to continue his search for answers, treatments, House's chance to live. So although what he really wants is to get House settled for the evening, and enjoy their brief, private reprieve from reality, Wilson asks her to stay.

"Maybe I won't look quite so crazy talking to myself if there's another conscious person in the room," he says with a self-deprecating smile.

Cuddy knows that really, nothing he does for House embarrasses Wilson at all, and she also knows that he's offering her a gift by inviting her to spend this time with them. She _should_ say no, leave them to their respite, but she can't. Cuddy suspects that soon, good moments with House will be little more than a memory, so she finds herself drawn to wanting to be with him and Wilson whenever she can.

"If you don't mind," she says, "I really would like to stay, for just a little while."

"Don't mind at all," Wilson answers, and as he says the words, he finds, to his surprise, that he _means_ them. He realizes that in the last few days, the line between Cuddy, the administrator, and Cuddy, the friend, has become blurred—and somehow, that's okay. _No; it's more than that. It's knowing that she cares about him as much as I do, that she's not afraid to share the responsibility or the… pain. Guess I should've known; for all the grief House gives her, he's always respected her. Something tells me he's known for a long time how strong she really is, how… special._

Cuddy interrupts Wilson's musings. "I'm going to go track us down some coffee; I'll be back in a few minutes. Anything else I can bring you?"

"No thanks. But hurry back; maybe you can help me figure out just what it is House sees in this show that's coming on. Or at least help me decipher the plot—if there _is_ one."

Cuddy smiles at the quizzical expression on Wilson's face. "Sounds… intriguing. I'll make it quick," she promises.

When Cuddy returns to the cubicle, she gowns up and carries in the tray. Wilson's frowning at the television and asking House, "Was that supposed to be funny? Because it's hard to tell without a laugh track—or words I can understand."

"What'd I miss?" Cuddy asks.

"I couldn't tell you. Takes me the first ten minutes of the show just to make out a quarter of what they're saying!" Wilson shakes his head and makes a face, then returns to listening intently to the program.

Cuddy laughs and turns her attention to the TV screen. After just a minute, she understands Wilson's confusion. The show is a British comedy, and the actors are speaking with thick cockney accents. "Subtitles would be nice," she comments.

"I'm not certain that'd help," Wilson says. "Unless the subtitles came with a British Slang dictionary. Have any idea what _doddle_ means? Or _chuffed_? I'm pretty certain that _khazi_ means 'bathroom', but I'll be damned if I can figure out why!"

"And House _enjoys_ this show, because?" Cuddy asks.

"Beats me. _That's_ as big a mystery as _yonks_. I'm actually _relieved_ when they say things like _nappie_ and _lift_ and _git_; I can almost—" Wilson abruptly stops talking, and stares at Cuddy, then _through_ Cuddy. And then… something eerie happens.

Cuddy's about to ask him if something's the matter—until she sees his eyes. She's seen that look on only one other face, and after a moment it's _that_ face she's seeing, and she's watching a process that amazes her now just as much as it did the first time she saw it happen.

Wilson's eyes are faraway, unfocused—or at least not focused on anything around him. Cuddy can almost see his brain working at an equation that's clear only to him. After observing this phenomenon with House so many times over the years, now Cuddy finds herself mentally going through the steps as they play across Wilson's face.

_He's made some sort of… obscure connection, found the piece that might solve the puzzle. Now he's running through the possible scenarios, looking for the one that fits. Eyes narrowing a little; he's arguing with himself—playing devil's advocate. Eyes widening; I know that one—all the pieces fit! There's the start of a smile; he thinks he may have it. Please—let him have it._

Wilson literally shakes himself, pulls himself out of his trancelike state, and walks swiftly to the doorway. Then all at once, he seems to remember Cuddy's presence. He turns around and comes back to her, begins speaking rapidly.

"I've got to go check into something. It's so simple; can't believe I missed it before. You take good care of him." And then he's gone.

Cuddy realizes immediately that Wilson's forgotten something; this is the first time he hasn't gone to House's side, explained anything, told him where he was going, when he'd be back. And he hadn't said goodbye.

Cuddy hurries to the bedside, and when she speaks to House her voice is confident, and there's an undercurrent of elation in her tone. "He'll be back, House. And when he _does _get back, it'll be the beginning of the end of this nightmare. You know why he didn't remember to say goodbye? Because it wasn't necessary. Because… you're going to _live_."


	33. Chapter 33: PUZZLED

**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: **PUZZLED

Cuddy and Chase are alternately pacing around House's small room and perching anxiously in the uncomfortable chairs. After Wilson had hurriedly departed, Cuddy had paged the team and told them what had transpired, shared her certainty that Wilson had found an answer. Chase and Foreman had arrived within twenty minutes. Now Foreman's in the lab, haranguing the techs for lab results, and Cuddy and Chase wait to hear from Wilson.

When Foreman enters, they know right away that he's got bad news. He motions for them to join him, away from House's bedside. Foreman hands the paper to Chase; Cuddy leans in to read it. Then, shell-shocked, the three stare at one another.

"Is this even possible?" Cuddy asks in a hushed voice.

"Not only possible, but exactly what I was afraid of," Chase says. "House's infection's been responding atypically since the beginning, and we don't know why. Not even his recent history of corticosteroid use explains all of it. Now, everything's dependent on Wilson, on whatever he's figured out."

Chase walks over to House's bedside and shuts off the antibiotic pump. "No sense risking more damage to his kidneys when the meds aren't doing anything to fight the VRSA," he says.

"But… that leaves him without any coverage for the infection at all!" Cuddy exclaims.

Foreman smiles grimly. "We could dump three doses into his veins right now, and it _still_ wouldn't give him coverage. Cultures showed resistance to both meds within hours."

"His fever's spiking again," Chase mentions to no one in particular as he activates the cooling blanket.

"Did Wilson say where he was going, when he'd be back?" Foreman asks Cuddy.

"No, but he seemed pretty certain that he'd figured out something important, and… I got the feeling that whatever it was would provide a solution, a definitive treatment plan." Cuddy doesn't mention that she's basing so much of her hope, her optimism, on the simple fact that Wilson hadn't said goodbye to House; she isn't sure that Chase and Foreman would appreciate the significance of that. But _she_ does, and her faith in Wilson hasn't wavered, even in light of this grim development.

And… Wilson had _been_ House during that revelatory experience; Cuddy's convinced of that. Her belief in House's diagnostic abilities is virtually unshakeable; she's more than willing, now, to transfer that confidence to Wilson.

_But how can I explain that to them? I don't even understand __why__ I know everything's going to be okay; how can I expect __them__ to get it? _She decides it's best not to even try; Wilson will return soon enough, and then Chase and Foreman will see for themselves.

"Where's Dr. Cameron?" Cuddy's just realized that the third member of House's team is conspicuously absent.

Foreman and Chase exchange a quick, uncomfortable glance, then Chase says "I spoke with her on the way over. She said if you need her, she'll come in. As a doctor. She said to tell you she… doesn't need to be here just to be part of… House's deathwatch."

A brief flash of anger crosses Cuddy's face, and then it's gone. "That's all right," she says pleasantly. "Her negative attitude won't help House right now—and _we_ don't need it either. Because he's going to be fine. Just fine."

Foreman, concern written on his face, nods to Chase to join him just outside the cubicle. Once they're out of Cuddy's hearing, he asks, "How long has he got if this miracle of Wilson's doesn't pan out?"

"Depends. If we extubate him, stop the dialysis, confine treatment to palliative care, it'll be less than a day—maybe significantly less. But something tells me Wilson and Cuddy won't allow that. And if they insist on continuing to actively treat… it's hard to say, but it could be a week." Chase lowers his head sadly. "A horrendous week."

"And what are the odds that Wilson really _has_ found something that'll make a difference?"

Chase hesitates, then says reluctantly, "Not good. Between House's depressed immune system and whatever mutation this is, I'm not certain there's _anything_ out there that'll give him a fighting chance. Even Cuddy and Wilson have gotta be aware that the cards are stacked against him. He got so sick, so quickly, and he hasn't responded fully to _anything_ we've tried. We may have lost the battle before we even started fighting. And I have a feeling that somehow, House already knew that, when he spoke to me about what he wanted if he was to become ill. What's concerning me now is, Wilson doesn't seem anywhere near ready to face it. I thought maybe Cuddy was; now I'm wondering about her as well."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. And the one who'll suffer because of their denial will be House." Foreman looks across at his unconscious boss, and shakes his head.

"No he won't," Chase says firmly. "If this goes bad, if Wilson doesn't come through, I'll increase House's sedation. Either way, whether they let us pull the plug or not, I'll make _certain_ he stays under."

"He's already maxed out," Foreman says. Then he sees the look on Chase's face, and he nods. "Okay. I'm with you; however much it takes, we give him. But… you _do_ realize that Wilson—and maybe even Cuddy—are gonna want to talk to him, say their goodbyes. They'll want to pull him out of the coma at least once."

Foreman's watching Cuddy as he speaks. She's with House, doing routine care, and she's obviously speaking to him. Foreman can tell from her posture, from the expression on her face and the serenity in her eyes, that she's pinned everything on this wild goose chase of Wilson's. He knows that she'll crash hard if Wilson can't save House—and he doesn't even want to _think_ about the effect it'll have on Wilson.

Chase looks intently at Foreman. "If you were House, would you want to be awake for _any_ of this?"

"Hell, no," Foreman says quietly.

"Our primary responsibility is to our patient," Chase continues. "So I say we take that responsibility… very, _very_ seriously." Chase looks meaningfully at Foreman, who mirrors his expression.

A nonverbal agreement passes between them, then they silently shake hands and return to the patient they've vowed to protect.


	34. Chapter 34: INTANGIBLE SIGNS

**A/N: **So _terribly_ sorry for the late posting today--was in the ER with my little one all last evening, possible broken arm--turned out to be a sprain. But today, had him up at the teaching hospital in our area, and received shocking news on an unrelated problem. We just got home, and I'm still... stunned. I owe _many_ of you Review Replies, and several of you PM replies. I give you my heartfelt apologies, and my promise that as soon as the news sinks in, and things settle down just a bit, I'll get back with each and every one of you. I am _so_ sorry; you've all been so loyal, and deserve better. Please, rest assured that I'm not ignoring you; right now I'm just... well, trying to cope, I guess. None of this will affect the story; I've finished writing it, and it will conclude as scheduled on Friday. Thanks for understanding--you're a _phenomenal_ bunch! **mjf**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: **INTANGIBLE SIGNS

It's been well over two hours since they've heard from Wilson. The toll it's taking on Cuddy, Foreman, and Chase is evident in the number of partially empty coffee cups scattered throughout House's cubicle, and in the way none of the three will meet each other's eyes anymore. The toll it's taking on House is even more obvious. Now that the VRSA's raged, unchecked, for several hours, his fever's above 104, the tachycardia is worsening, and they've already had to increase the dosage of enalapril controlling his blood pressure.

And—despite the heavy sedation—Cuddy's certain that House is somehow able to sense Wilson's absence. Wilson had taught her to watch for the subtle signs of increased leg pain, and she's seen them twice now, and has had to medicate for them with the PCA. But it's _more_ than that; there's a restlessness in House that can't be described, or explained, simply by listing his symptoms. Even after the extra Dilaudid, his posture doesn't relax, and he seems… generally unsettled. Cuddy tries to speak to him the way Wilson would, but House's response just isn't the same. His blood pressure is continuing to climb slowly; she tries again.

"It's okay, House; Wilson'll be back soon. He's gone to find something to help you, and when he gets back, he'll explain everything. But I'm here; I'm right here, and you're safe. And Foreman and Chase are here too; we're all looking out for you. I want you to relax, and trust us. Your B/P's going up; that's not good for your kidneys. So you need to just… have a little faith, okay?" Cuddy's attempting to keep her voice calm, soothing, assured, as she's seen Wilson do. But nothing changes, and finally she turns away from the bed, the worry stark in her eyes.

Chase and Foreman are studying the monitors, and their concern is growing. "We could try some more diazepam," Foreman says to Chase. Cuddy overhears him.

"No! He's already sedated almost past the point of safety, and it isn't doing any good. Don't you understand what the problem is? House _knows _something's up. And… he knows Wilson isn't here."

Foreman makes a quiet scoffing noise; Cuddy ignores it, and turns to Chase. "How many times have you watched an intubated preemie in NICU, an infant supposedly drugged into oblivion, respond with changes in vital signs as soon as the mother touches him, or speaks to him? Is there a medical explanation for that? Is there a medication that can reproduce that effect?"

Chase shakes his head and turns to Foreman. "Dr. Cuddy may be right. And if she is, it won't matter _what_ we give him, or how much. We may just have to wait until Dr. Wilson gets back."

Cuddy nods with satisfaction, but Foreman's shaking his head.

"If Wilson doesn't return soon, it's not gonna matter _what's_ causing the jump in his vitals," he says. "I'm willing to give it fifteen more minutes; after that, we need to put aside all these 'emotional effect' theories, and start thinking like doctors again." Foreman's tone is dubious, but it isn't cruel, and Cuddy smiles almost pityingly at him.

"You'd be surprised," she says, "what emotions can do to the body, how they can help or hinder recovery." She gazes at House. "As a matter of fact, I've _seen_ all those messy emotions make the only difference between recovery… and death."

"Yeah, and I might buy all that if this were any other patient," Foreman asserts. "But this is _House_. Emotions don't mean a damned thing to him; he wouldn't recognize an actual _feeling_ if he tripped over it!"

Cuddy flares. "And it's _just_ that attitude that's put us—and him—where we are now! Maybe some of it's his own fault; you're right, he's quite… skillful at hiding his feelings. But lately, we've taught him to hide not only his emotions but also his pain. Negative conditioning. As a neurologist, I'm sure you're familiar with that. Every time he came to one of us and _tried_ to be honest, we gave him the emotional equivalent of an electrical shock. So eventually… he quit trying. And no one noticed. Or if we _did_, it was only because we were relieved that he'd started… behaving himself. And we reinforced it by ignoring him every time he slipped up and tried to complain. Wilson's correct—we were punishing _him_ because the _treatment_ failed."

Foreman looks thoughtful. "Maybe you're right. I'm not saying I buy everything you've said, but I'll admit to not bothering to hide my impatience with his… antics."

"And all that needs to change as he recovers," Cuddy says adamantly. "We all have to let him see that we respect him _and_ his feelings. That we take his pain seriously. Oh, I'm not saying that we suddenly go all cuddly and concerned on him—_that_ wouldn't get us anywhere either!" Cuddy smiles dryly at the notion. "What I'm suggesting is that we react to him the same way we'd react to complaints from _any_ patient—just give him the benefit of the doubt, that's all."

"You don't think he'd take advantage of that?" Foreman asks her dubiously.

Cuddy gazes steadily at him. "_You_ don't think it's going to be a very, very long time before he trusts any of us enough to even _think_ of coming to us—let alone _lying_ to us?"

Foreman shrugs. "I don't know. And if Wilson doesn't get back here soon, with something concrete, the point'll be moot." His eyes are trained on the bank of monitors, and the other two follow his gaze.

House's heart rate is above 140; his blood pressure is 174/94. And all three are very much aware that medically, they're out of options. Even Cuddy falls quiet and grim.

As House's heart rate hits 150, Foreman moves to mute the shrill cardiac alarm that's broken their desperate silence. The three look helplessly at one another—and Wilson walks in.

He takes one look at their faces, and at the monitors, and marches straight to House's bedside, motioning impatiently to them with his hand to cut off their barrage of questions as he begins to speak to House.

"I'm back, House—you need to settle down. Stop scaring these people, and behave yourself." Wilson puts a hand on House's arm. "Yeah, I know that you _live_ to torment Cuddy." Wilson glances up and sees Cuddy's wide eyes, her apprehensive expression, then returns his gaze to House.

"You're doing a good job of it, too. But it's time to stop now. I'm right here, and you're safe. And I've got your magic bullet. I know that these three have questions, and so do you. I'll explain everything as soon as you get yourself under control—so pull it together right now, pal." Wilson's words are firm, but his tone is warm and affectionate.

"Well… I'll be _damned_," Foreman says in a voice barely above a whisper. Cuddy and Chase look away from House, to the monitors; Wilson doesn't bother.

House's heart rate is down to 124, and it's still decreasing. His blood pressure's already fallen to 130/82. Those are the things these physicians can understand, can quantify—they're the things that put a quiet smile on Cuddy's face, as she triumphantly regards the other two. But it's the intangibles, those variables they can't even _begin_ to measure, that change the silence in the room from desperation to… awe. If they _had_ to put a name to it, they'd be at a loss.

But all of them know that—whatever word they might choose to qualify what they've just witnessed—it goes far deeper than any medical intervention ever could. Apparently, House is aware of that too; his vital signs continue to stabilize. Even the vent sounds like it's not having to work quite so hard. Finally, Wilson's satisfied that House is becalmed. "Good job," he tells House quietly. Then, keeping his hand wrapped securely around House's wrist, he turns, looks at the faces regarding him expectantly, and smiles.


	35. Chapter 35: PUZZLES AND SOLUTIONS

**A/N: **To echo Wilson's first line in this chapter--first things first. I want to thank each and every one of you for your overwhelming words of concern and kindness yesterday! Many of you took not only the time to review, but also the time to let me know you're 'thinkin' the good thoughts' for my son and me. And that helps me feel better, and more hopeful--I'm... beyond grateful. Tomorrow is the final chapter of this story, but as the sequel progresses over the summer, I'll share a bit more of what's going on, as we adjust. Right now, it's just too new, too scary, hurts too much. And I appreciate your understanding with that as well. **mjf**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: **PUZZLES AND SOLUTIONS

"First things first," Wilson tells his anxious audience. "I've brought the medication that'll cure House; it's down in the pharmacy right now. As soon as the pharmacist finishes verification, we'll get it up here, get it started. I've spoken with the drug company that supplies it in England; they're providing a list of trials and locations here in the States. We should have the next dose in plenty of time. We're also gonna need to get dalbavancin, but that can wait until tomorrow. "

"_England_? What? Wilson, start at the beginning, please!" Cuddy's expression is a study in contradiction—both laughter and tears are bubbling to the surface—but mostly she's just puzzled.

Wilson smiles and looks down at House. "Hate to break this to you, House, but you really _are_ a great teacher—sorry about that." Then he turns back to the others.

"We've all seen House's… unorthodox methods of solving cases. Guess more of it rubbed off than I knew." He turns to Cuddy. "Remember what we were doing just before I left?"

"Of course. We were watching that absolutely incomprehensible English comedy. And discussing British slang. Then you… pulled a House… and left me wondering what I was supposed to say _to_ House. So I told him you'd figured it out. You _did_, too. But how?"

Wilson sits down in the bedside chair; Cuddy smiles when she notices that he's still holding onto House's wrist. "The day of the incident, when I came down to the clinic, I hadn't been there long when Leigh showed up, wanting to apologize to House. And—if you'll remember—she had some language delays."

Cuddy and Chase nod; the young woman's speech had been slow, and she'd had difficulty with pronunciation. They recall that Wilson had helped her out when she'd become frustrated trying to explain the reasons for the outburst that had led to House's injury.

"She seemed to be having trouble with the word _television_, and at the time I didn't think anything about it. But tonight, when Cuddy and I were trying to make sense of the slang, something occurred to me. Leigh had already said _TV_, and she hadn't had any problem with it. So why not just say it again, instead of trying a four syllable variation?"

Cuddy, Foreman, and Chase look questioningly at one another, each of them wondering what they're missing.

Wilson continues, "But she _had_ finished the word; she was trying to go on with her explanation when I filled in the blanks for her. Remember Leigh's speech patterns? At _no_ time did she use baby talk, or substitute nonsense words for what she was trying to say. Hell, she even made an effort to pronounce _spastic_ correctly."

"You're right," Chase remembers. "And when she couldn't say _angry_, she just changed it to _mad_."

Wilson nods. "So I was thinking; why try so hard to pronounce _television_, and then replace it with baby talk, instead of simply going back to _TV_? It just didn't fit with the rest of her pattern of speech. And then, when Cuddy and I were discussing British slang, it came to me; _telly_ isn't baby talk. But it's _also_ not used in the United States."

Chase is smiling; he's latched onto Wilson's train of thought. "So you figured she'd been to England recently, and contracted VRSA there. And _that's_ why House's infection hadn't responded to our usual protocols for treatment."

"Exactly. And it makes sense; she'd come in from a group home, so it didn't occur to anyone to ask her if she'd been out of the country. I _did_ think of it a couple days later, even pulled her history from Records on Sunday. One of the first things that occurred to me when we found out that the bacteria weren't susceptible to vanc was that maybe Leigh had traveled out of the area, went somewhere they were already having problems with vancomycin resistance. But the attendant who brought her in here had just started working at the home; he didn't know that Leigh's parents had taken her out of Princeton-Vale, much less that she'd been in England."

Wilson pauses in his narrative, and peers at House's face. "You in pain?" he asks House, before reaching over and depressing the button on the PCA.

The others look at him questioningly; even Cuddy can't detect any change in House's demeanor that would indicate discomfort. "I felt the tendons in his wrist tightening up—his fingers were curling, and his heart rate's gone up eight or ten beats in the last half a minute or so," Wilson explains matter-of-factly, as if it should've been obvious to all of them.

Foreman shakes his head in wonder. "You really _are_ the House Whisperer," he says.

"Years of practice," Wilson says dryly. "Even if I have been… underutilizing that particular skill lately…." He waits until he feels House's pulse rate fall again before continuing.

"Anyway, I was sure that it'd turn out she'd returned pretty recently from the UK. The only thing that was still confusing me was why she appeared to be responding so well to the routine oral antibiotics for MRSA."

"But I thought I explained that," says Chase. "Sometimes a non-systemic infection will be susceptible to treatments that have no effect once the bacteria go systemic."

"It still didn't make sense; Cuddy even mentioned that it looked like she'd had the boil a long time. And when MRSA goes untreated for a while, it's usually more resistant to treatment. It'll respond, but not as quickly as Leigh's did. So I went to the group home to speak with her, try to get some confirmation for my theory, and make sure she was recovering well. And she was very helpful."

"What did she say? Was she able to confirm what you'd thought?"

Wilson nods. "She not only told me that she'd been to England with her parents, she said they'd been there almost four months. After she told me that, I figured I'd better go have a word with the parents. Dad's still out of the country, but mom and I had… an illuminating discussion." He smiles wryly.

Foreman catches the tone of Wilson's voice, and grins knowingly. "So I take it this wasn't all… on the up and up."

"You could say that," Wilson says, while Cuddy groans softly. "Mom told me that they'd gone on an extended vacation, and they decided to take Leigh with them. But she wasn't coping well with the lack of structure, and she'd started to have some difficulties—she's used to an atmosphere where she can socialize, and their vacation home was isolated. So they decided to put her in respite care for a month while her father was part of some sort of exchange program in Scotland. They figured she'd be better off there than having to make the trip back to the States without them. When her parents returned from Scotland, they discovered the furuncle. The usual treatments were started, and when the infection didn't respond, Leigh's father stepped in."

"Her father?" Cuddy asks. "What did he have to do with it?"

"You're not gonna believe this," Wilson smiles. "He's a scientist, a pharmaceutical researcher. So happens his team's been working on new superbug compounds, so he's known—and very well connected—in that community."

"House would _love_ this," Foreman observes.

"Oh, it gets better. They put her on dalbavancin, which is concluding phase III trials here in the States—but it was providing only partial coverage of the infection. So they combined it with WCK 771—so new it doesn't even have a name yet. It's an arginine salt of nadifloxacin. It's currently in Phase II-B trials at University Hospital in South Manchester."

"So Daddy pulled a few strings," Foreman comments dryly.

"He did more than that. Didn't even enroll her in the trial for the new stuff. Just made a few phone calls, got a supply of the compound. Then he hired a private nurse so she could be treated at home—apparently the family's got a country place in a rural area, quite a distance from the nearest hospital."

"But it mustn't have worked!" Cuddy interjects. "Looked pretty bad when she first came in. I'm assuming you think this… WCK 771… is going to cure House. How can it help _him_, if Leigh's infection wasn't helped?"

"But it_ was_," Wilson says. "Here's the thing. Dalbavancin has a half-life of up to 300 hours. And—especially with a non-systemic infection like hers—dosing once a week, or even just twice a month, normally provides adequate coverage. As a matter of fact, non-systemic MRSA sometimes responds in as little as two doses. Combine it with WCK 771, and even this mutant strain of VRSA is completely susceptible to treatment, according to Leigh's dad."

"So how'd she end up here?"

"When they returned to the States a few weeks ago, Leigh went back to Princeton-Vale Convalescent Center. But they live nearby, take her home for dinner most evenings, and bring her home on weekend passes. Didn't… uh… bother to mention to anyone at Princeton-Vale that the nurse they'd hired to care for her while she was home _also_ happened to be administering the WCK 771 and the dalbavancin intravenously. They knew there'd be… problems with giving her an unapproved medication, especially a med that was brought in from overseas. So they circumvented _that_ little obstacle, told the group home that they'd hired the nurse for wound care. And Leigh's on anti-seizure meds, gets frequent blood tests, so I guess no one thought to question the needle sticks. _If_ anyone even noticed."

"Everybody lies," Cuddy whispers.

"They might've managed to carry it off, too," Wilson continues, "except that mom flew off to join dad at a symposium in Paris one weekend, and figured that Leigh could miss a few doses without any problems. She didn't bother to run _that_ theory by Dad; he just assumed she'd made some sort of arrangements. And mom's timing couldn't have been worse; she hadn't realized that Leigh would actually be an entire _month_ without dalbavancin if they omitted a dose entirely. And WCK 771 is effective, but it has to be given daily."

"But that's _exactly_ why we're getting into so many difficulties with antibiotic resistance; those missed doses just give the bacteria a chance to rebound even more strongly!" Cuddy explodes. "And clearly, it's beginning to have global implications."

"The _only_ implications I'm concerned with right now are the ones that affect House," Wilson points out grimly. "We can worry about the rest of the world later—starting with the employees and residents at Leigh's group home. We'll need to get a team out there, first thing in the morning, to get swabs on everyone—see if anyone else is infected or colonized. The irony of all this is that the FDA's set to approve dalbavancin this year—and VRSA's already showing resistance to it, at least overseas. By the time they're ready to give WCK 771 a name, who knows if it'll even be effective."

"You said you've already got the first dose for House," Chase says. "Do we want to know how you managed that?"

Wilson grins at Chase. "You and Foreman are gonna appreciate this." Then he turns to Cuddy. "_You_, on the other hand, may want to plug your ears."

Cuddy's voice is dry. "Oh, no, _Dr._ _House_; please! By all means, _do_ _tell_ how you managed to get your hands on an experimental drug, currently being manufactured only overseas. I can hardly _wait_; and the sooner I find out, the more time I've got to come up with a plausible story for the hospital's legal department. Just in case… _someone_… should feel the need to go running to the board with the exciting news that we're dosing our patients with unauthorized, unapproved substances that we're acquiring from… _private homes_." Cuddy takes a deep breath and gazes skyward.

"Won't be me!" Chase interjects cheerfully.

Wilson gives Cuddy an apologetic smile. "Dad had just sent over a new shipment—still in the original packaging, still in powder form. And Mom felt bad about the consequences of Leigh's little tantrum in the clinic, so she insisted that I take a dose for House. I checked with our pharmacist; he said if it was still sealed, he could verify the contents with Wockhardt—that's the company that manufactures it, in India. So that's what he's doing right now. Then he'll get it reconstituted; he promised to send it up the second it's ready for administration. He… just asked that I… uh… spare him the details about how I acquired it."

Chase looks to Cuddy. "Didn't I hear you mention recently that House is coming in under budget with lawsuits this year? Because you might want to earmark that extra money _now…._" He grins teasingly at Wilson.

"Is that supposed to be _funny_, Dr. Chase?" Cuddy asks with mock severity—she's grinning too.

"And here's the best part of the whole thing," Wilson says.

"There's _more_? Of course there's more; there's _always _more," Cuddy mumbles, putting her face in her hands.

"Yeah—but this is really good news! As I said, both meds are still in clinical trials, but so far they haven't had to make any dosage adjustments for patients with renal or hepatic insufficiency. Of course, we'll have to monitor House carefully, but looks like these meds won't add to his current problems, and his kidneys'll continue to recover!"

As Wilson finishes speaking, a nurse enters, ready to hang the new medication. Cuddy shakes her head and takes the IV bag from the nurse, then dismisses her from the room. She hands the bag to Wilson. "You started the process that's going to save his life," she tells him solemnly. "So you deserve to be the one to see it through."

Wilson nods once, gravely. He studies the bag a moment, looks at the deceptively clear solution contained within; it's as innocent as water, as complex as House himself.

Wilson hangs the bag, attaches the tubing to a port, and turns on the pump. Three sets of eyes are glued to the drip chamber as the first drops fall. The fourth set of eyes is on House's face, and they're sending a silent message: _I kept my promise, House—and it's all gonna be okay._

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Both of these compounds _do_ exist, both _are_ in clinical trials, and the FDA _is_ expected to approve dalbavancin this year (although I just read a report of an unexpected delay in approval). And yes—there is already at least one strain of VRSA against which dalbavancin is ineffective, although all MRSA strains remain susceptible. The superbugs are indeed upon us, they're mutating every day, and it's frightening.


	36. Chapter 36: MORALS AND PROVERBS

**A/N: ** Huge thanks to _everyone_ for your support, encouragement, and praise; it's been one of the most fulfilling experiences I've ever had. And we're not... quite... finished. Tomorrow, I'll be posting a preview of the (as yet untitled) sequel, to whet your appetites. And to the anonymous reviewer who requested that I write something wherein _Wilson_ is the one in trouble--you might wish to check out my brand new **_Hour_** series; the links are in my profile. Thanks to each and every one of you for reading; a special thanks to those who've also taken the time to review. And my boundless gratitude to all those who are saying prayers and/or keeping positive thoughts for my little boy. Finally, I'd be quite remiss if I didn't take this opportunity to thank my incredible first readers, **Blackmare** and **Misanthropicobs**; you two are the _best_! **mjf**

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX:** MORALS AND PROVERBS

_Figures,_ Wilson thinks as he rushes to catch the elevator before the doors close. _I ignore Cuddy yelling at me for two days because I won't leave House's room. Then I let Foreman push me out the door for something stupid—lunch and a hot shower weren't good reasons to leave House. What was I thinking? But he found a way to punish me, all right; I'm gone twenty minutes, and damned if he doesn't wake up._

Wilson swallows a curse and stabs uselessly at the button as the elevator doors shut, then he turns and heads for the stairs.

A lot has happened in the past two days. A mere eight hours after the first dose of WCK 771, House's fever had broken, and from that point on, the improvement in his condition has been slow but steady. His labs are improving, and the forty-eight hour culture results for the WCK 771/dalbavancin combination have shown complete eradication of House's strain of VRSA.

Wilson remembers the very moment the fever had broken, and he smiles. _Looked like House'd gotten himself caught in a rainstorm; he was so soaked with sweat we could've wrung out those sheets! And after the nurse and I got him all cleaned up, and she suggested giving him a shave… bet she's still wondering why I wouldn't stop laughing when House's heart rate picked that moment to shoot through the roof!_

It's going to be several more weeks before House's kidneys will fully resume normal function and he'll be able to come off dialysis, but they'd expected that.

_He'll still need dialysis when I take him home; that oughtta be a laugh a minute. Doesn't matter, though—I'll put up with whatever he dishes out. It'll be easy; I'll just remind myself how close we came to permanently redecorating the living room, replacing the piano with a home dialyzer._

Wilson's inordinately grateful to the dialysis machine; it's responsible, in large part, for the resolution of House's pulmonary edema. Yesterday morning, House had begun bucking the ventilator—attempting to breathe on his own, against the mechanical flow.

_Reminded me of a kid who's just discovered he can set off the smoke detector by burning his toast—I swear House was fighting the vent just to see how high he could make us jump every time it alarmed._

By early afternoon, after the multiple alarms had everyone's nerves permanently jangled, Chase had decided that it would be safe to try and wean him from the vent. So they'd lightened his sedation, waited a few hours, and begun the routine process.

_Of course, House had to make it exciting for us—nothing routine about him_, Wilson thinks wryly.

Chase had decreased the settings on the vent so that it was providing only four breaths per minute, giving House a chance to breathe on his own during the fifteen second intervals between mechanical breaths. Not only _hadn't_ House attempted to breathe, his heart rate had fallen alarmingly. Chase had returned the vent to its original settings and tried to soothe Wilson by suggesting that maybe they were hoping for too much, too soon—maybe they were rushing things. But Wilson wasn't buying that.

"House, I know you can hear me," he'd said loudly. "Here's the deal; you get another thirty minutes to shake off the sedation, and then we're trying this again. You either cooperate, or I'll _personally_ declare you brain-dead and donate your body for spare parts. Not that you have anything anybody else would want, but it's the thought that counts." Wilson knows it had to be his imagination, but he'd still swear he'd seen House give the smallest of grins around the endotracheal tube. And half an hour later, House was ready, and the extubation had gone without incident.

Cuddy and Wilson were concerned when House hadn't regained consciousness after a few hours, but Foreman had pointed out that not only had he been heavily sedated for several days, but the combined effects on his body of the unremitting high fever and the daily dialysis sessions had left him without any reserves; he needed this time to recoup.

_And I needed to do some recouping of my own. Guess I just didn't let myself realize, until he started getting better, how close I came to losing him. I __couldn't__ let myself realize that; if I had, my only alternative would've been to give up on him. And I couldn't do that… again. Almost killed us both the first time._

So Wilson and Cuddy had waited, and watched, and hoped. And they'd both spent a lot of time talking to him, privately.

Wilson doesn't know what Cuddy said to him. He himself had quietly told House all that he'd learned in the past week. He knows he'll always treasure this time they've had, these private monologues, the ability to say to an unconscious House the things House's waking demeanor won't permit.

_Glad I finally told him what he means to me, the difference his friendship makes. House may not have heard everything I said; maybe he didn't hear __anything__ I said—but that's okay. I'll have plenty of time to show him. Deeds, not words. _Wilson smiles as he savors the phrase, '_plenty of time'_. It's a luxury he intends to appreciate fully, a gift they'd come far too close to losing.

Wilson arrives at House's cubicle and hurriedly throws on an isolation gown. Cuddy, Chase, and Foreman meet him at the door; he looks toward House, whose eyes are closed.

"He's just gone back to sleep," Cuddy whispers. "He's very weak, of course. But we told him pretty much everything that's happened, and he seemed to understand it all."

"Did he say anything? Is he angry?" Wilson asks, his eyes trained on House. _Doesn't matter if he is; I'd have done it anyway. And I'd do it again, if necessary. But it's probably a good idea to find out what I'm walking into __before__ I walk into it!_

"He had a few questions," Chase tells him. "And he did want to know how he'd wound up on the vent. But I've gotta say—he seemed more… amused than anything else, when we told him what you'd done."

Wilson's still looking closely at House. "I'm sure he'll wake up again soon," he tells the others. "Would you mind giving us a little time?"

"Not at all," says Cuddy. "We need to get back to work anyway," she says to Chase and Foreman. "Believe it or not, House isn't the only patient here; there's a building full of 'em. And I'm happy to be able to say that now we can concentrate on a few of the others!"

As soon as they're gone, Wilson approaches the bedside. "It's safe, House; they've left. You can open your eyes now."

The tiny grin lifting the corner of House's mouth isn't Wilson's imagination this time. House opens his eyes slowly. "How'd you know I wasn't sleeping?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, but much improved over the broken, labored whisper Wilson had last heard from him.

"Easy; that little habit you have of biting your upper lip when you're bored. It's a dead giveaway."

"You study my body language? That's just… weird."

"No it's not; it's a survival skill, learned at great expense." _To both of us_. _And I need to be practicing it more often._

"Speaking of 'survival'," House says, "word on the street has it that you saved my life."

"Yeah, well… you know how reliable word on the street is." Wilson looks away.

"Oh, I trust my sources. Heard your methods were pretty impressive, too. And just barely legal."

Now Wilson meets House's eyes. "Learned from the best."

"Not gonna deny that." House's expression is self-mocking, but Wilson can see that House is pleased with the unexpected compliment, _and_ that he's maybe even a little bit proud of his bestest bud, and what he pulled off on House's behalf. Wilson can also tell that House is tiring; he's making a conscious effort to keep his eyes open.

"Why don't you get some sleep for real? You relapse now, I'll have to go through that whole tedious saving-your-life thing again."

House shakes his head; he's not done talking yet. "You familiar with that old Chinese proverb? _The life you save, you are responsible for_. Or is that a moral? You know I always get that confused."

Wilson blinks and swallows. "It's a proverb, House—a phrase with profound meaning. Now. I'm not asking, I'm telling—close your eyes, get some sleep." Wilson looks down at House, fighting sleep like a recalcitrant child, and he smiles affectionately.

House eyes Wilson's loving expression suspiciously. "You're not gonna… _hug_ me, are you?"

Wilson's smile grows a bit wider, and his eyes are shining. Both he and House _know_ that the hug House is protesting is safely wrapped up in the look on Wilson's face. "Wouldn't dream of it. You're down to skin and bones anyway; your luck, I'd break something. Now quit stalling and go to sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up."

House's eyes close, and he smiles too. And he's got just one more thing to say. He could swear he says "Stop hovering!" But what comes out is, "I'm counting on it"—and that's okay, too.

**Reminder:** Return tomorrow--same time, same channel, for a sneak peek at the sequel! Hugs to _all _of you! **mjf**


	37. SNEAK PEEK AT SEQUEL

**HERE'S THE PROMISED "SNEAK PEEK" AT THE SEQUEL! **Also, tomorrow I'll be posting the next vignette in the _Hour_ series, if you're following that. Hope you all have a lovely weekend. **mjf**

House sleeps for almost an hour. Wilson's more than content to sit silently by the bed, just watching him sleep. For the first fifteen minutes, Wilson had tried to put a name, a description, to the tangle of emotions racing through his body, his heart, his exhausted mind. As soon as he _stops_ trying, it comes to him.

He's a father, eyes glued to his infant in wonder and fear—wonder at discovering all over again how amazing _life_ can be; fear that if he dares look away from this gift, even for an instant, the breathing will cease.

Wilson chuckles to himself at his own sense of drama—but still, he doesn't look away. So when House awakens, the first things he focuses on are the concerned brown eyes that are focused so intently on _him_.

"Just took a refresher course at Flight School, I see."

Wilson's momentarily confused, and then he remembers House's 'hovering' metaphor, and he groans. "House, the whole helicopter thing was cute the first time, but—wait; actually, it _wasn't_ cute. You had a roomful of worried doctors convinced that you were delirious, or hallucinating, or both!"

House rolls his eyes and begins to adjust his position in bed. Wilson winces in anticipatory sympathy when House inadvertently hits his injured right index finger against the siderail, but House doesn't even flinch.

"Hey—cool!" House says. "Must've been out a lot longer than I thought, slept through that whole depressing 'pain before gain' thing. How long _was _I out, anyway?"

Cold fear zings through Wilson's body. "Why do you ask?" he says slowly, staring at House.

"Because my hand doesn't hurt anymore—not even that twitchy nerve in the finger," House says cheerfully. Then he sees Wilson's face, and his smile fades, and—his eyes still locked with Wilson's—he swiftly, sharply, deliberately strikes his right hand into the siderail.

"My hand doesn't hurt," House says, "because… I can't feel it."


End file.
